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The range and quality of this boolc are indicated by the table 
of contents. The editor has endeavored to make a collection of 
dramatic pieces, various in subject and style, and all within the 
circle of standard literature. Possibly the volume may have 
influence in turning attention to some works of genius too much 
neglected by those who practice elocution as an artistic accom- 
plishment. 

Dramatic representation is a fascinating amusement, and it 
may be made conducive to the best general culture. An art so 
elegant and intellectual should not be allowed to fall under the 
contempt of the educator or the censure of the moralist. While 
it. must be admitted that the performance of frivolous, sensa- 
tional comedies, and coarse farces, exaggerates some of the evils 
of the common theatei*, it must be allowed, on the other hand, 
that the proper acting of choice plays is an exhilarating pas- 
time, at once innocent, pleasant, and profitable. The careful 
study and appreciative rendering of such a drama, for example, 
as "The Three Caskets," can not be regarded as otherwise than 
elevating and refining. 

With few exceptions, the plays in these pages are each long 

(iii) 



IV PREFACE. 

enough to allow the development of a strong interest. The 
comic selections, in several instances, essentially include, the 
underplots of the dramas from which they are taken, and are, 
therefore, quite complete in themselves. Some of the spright- 
liest pieces, as " Bi'aggadocio " and " Detraction," comprise 
satisfactory portions of plays that, as a whole, are not adapted 
to the modern stage. The version of " William Tell " here given 
is not identical with the common acting edition of that drama. 

Though this volume is designed, primarily, to supply scenes 
for dramatic representation, it may also be used as a rhetorical 
reader, or as a reference book for students in English literature, 
since it contains characteristic productions of representative 
authors, from Shakespeare to Bulwer. 

The editor wishes to record his acknowledgment of the great 
assistance rendered by his wife, in selecting and transcribing 
material for the entire series of '• Eclectic Acting Plays," of 
which this is the third and last volume. He would also thank 
Mrs. Robert Rogers, of Cincinnati, for the continued use of her 
library, rich in dramatic literature. 



OO^TEI^TS 



Stage Terms and Directions 

Mercutio 

Detraction 

Boniface 

Braggadocio 

Ilieiizi 

Ill-gotten Gold 

The Three Caskets 

The Positive Man 

Pangloss 

Inkle and Yarico 

The Deceived Bride 

The Greek Girl and the Barbarian 

Yentidins and the Emperor . 



PAGE 

7 

Shakespeare 9 

Wlichcrhj 24 

Farqxihar 40 

. Congrcve 46 

. Mitford 64 

. Milman 73 

Shakespeare 80 

. O ' Kcefe 99 

Colman the Younger 104 

Colman the Elder 124 

Tohin 140 

Lovell 153 

. Dnjden 164 

(V) " 



VI CONTEN 

William Tell . 

Jafficr and Belvidera 

The Dutiful Son 

The Pound of Flesl 

The Bequest . 

The Death of Cato 

The Forlorn Hope of Mona 



PAGE 

. Knowles 177 

Otway 237 

. Sheridan 257 

Shakespeare 2GS 

Bulwer-Lytton 284 

. Addison 305 

. Mason 31-4 



STAGE TERMS AND DIRECTIONS. 



BEHIND SCENE. 





R. U. E. 




R. 3E. 




R. 2E. 


R. 


IE. 


R 


R. C. 



SCENE. 

C. L. U. E. 



L. 3E. 
STAGE. L. 2 E. 



L. 1 E. 



L. C. L. 



ORCHESTRA. 



AUDIENCE. 



C. means Center ; E., Eight ; L., Left ; E. C, Eiglit 
Center ; L. C, Left Center ; E. 1 E., Eiglit Fh-st 
Entrance ; L. 2 E., Left Second Entrance ; E. U. E., 
Eight Upper Entrance ; W., "Wing; up is toward the 
flat ; down^ tOAvard the footlights. The actor is sup- 
posed to face the audience. 

Complete directions for constructing a stage and its appurte- 
nances, for providing properties, scenery, and costume, and for 
selecting, rehearsing, and performing plays, are given in the 
"Amateur Actor." 

(vii) 




^--/^r7l^l)lf^__>fV^ 



ERCUTIO 



From Shakespeare' s Romeo and Julie f. 



PERSONS REPRESENTED. 

Mercxitio, friend to Romeo. 
Romeo, son to Monta<jiie. 
Benvolio, nepheiv to Montague. 
Tybalt, nepheiv to Capiilet. 

(9) 



10 MERCUTIO. 



TROLOGUE. 



The prologue to Shakespeare's tragedy of Romeo and Juliet 
begins with these lines : 

Two households, both alike in dignilij, 
In fair Verona, where ive lay our scene, 

From ancient (jrucJge break to new mutiny. 
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. 

The heads of the houses at variance with each other are 
Montague and Capulet. Romeo is a son of Montague; Ben- 
volio, a nephew; and ^lercutio, a friend of these, and also 
kinsman to the prince of Verona. Tybalt is a nephew of 
Capulet, and therefore an enemy to Romeo and his friends. 
These facts borne in mind will explain our play, which com- 
prises, with a few omissions, the well-known and brilliant 
Mercuiio Scenes, from Romeo and Jidiet. The action is located 
in Vei'ona's streets. The characters are all young Italian 
gentlemen, full of passionate life and fire. In the first scene 
we have the three adherents to the house of ^Montague pre- 
paring for a mad-cap visit, in disguise, to a ball at Capulct's. 
Scenes second and third derive their interest from the hilari- 
ous raillery and wit of the inimitable Mercutio. The fourth 
and last scene introduces the "fiery Tybalt"; an altercation 
follows; then a conflict ending in the death, first of Mercutio, 
and afterward of Tybalt. 



Scene I: — A Street in Verona. Enter Romeo, 
Mercutio, and Benvolio, l. 

Borneo. "What, shall this speech be sj)oke for our 
cxcitse, 
Or shall we on without apology? 

Ben. The date is out of such prolixity : 
We '11 measure them a measure, and begone. 



MERCUTIO. 11 

Itom. Give mc a torch ; I am not for this ambling; 
Being but heavy, I will bear the light. 

Mer. Nay, gentle Eomeo, we must have you dance. 

Bom. Not I, believe me : you have dancing shoes, 
With nimble soles ; I have a soul of lead. 
So stakes me to the ground, I can not move. 

Mer. You are a lover ; borroAV Cupid's wings, 
And soar with them above a common bound. 

Rom. I am too sore enjjierced with his shaft, 
To soar with his light feathers ; and so bound, 
I can not bound a pitch above dull Avoe : 
Under love's heavy burden do I sink. 

Mer. And, to sink in it, should you burden love ; 
Too great oppression for a tender thing. 

Rom. Is love a tender thing? it is too rough, 
Too rude, too boisterous ; and it pricks like thorn. 

Mer. If love be rough with you, be rough Avith 
love : 
Give me a case to put my visage in. 

[^Putting on a mask. 
A visor for a visor ! What care I, 
What curious eye doth quote deformities ? 
Here are the beetle brows, shall blush for me. 

Ben. Come, knock, and enter; and no sooner in. 
But every man betake him to his legs. 

Bom. A torch for me : let wantons, light of heart, 
Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels ; 
I '11 be a candle-holder, and look on. 

3fer. Tut, ' Eomeo,' we '11 draw thee from the mire 
Of this (save reverence) love, wherein thou stick'st 
Up to the cars. — Come, we burn daylight, ho. 



12 MERCUTIO. 

Bom. Nay, that 's not so. 

Mer. I mean, sir, in delay 

"We waste our lights in vain, like lamps hy day. 
Take our good meaning; for our judgment sits, 
Five times in that, ere once in our five wits. 

Rom. And we mean well in going to this mask ; 
But 't is no wit to go. 

Mer. Why, may one ask? 

Rom. I dreamed a dream to-night. 

Mer. And so did I. 

Rom. Well, what was yours? 

Mer. That dreamers often lie. 

Rom. In bed, asleep, while they do dream things 
true. 

Mer. O, then, I see. Queen Mab hath been with j-ou. 
She is the fairies' midwife ; and she comes 
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone 
On the fore-finger of an alderman, 
Drawn with a team of little atomies 
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep : 
Her wagon-spokes made of long spinners' legs ; 
The cover, of the wings of grasshop])ers ; 
The traces, of the smallest spider's w^eb ; 
The collars, of the moonshine's watery beams : 
Her Avhip, of cricket's bone ; the lash, of film : 
Her wagoner, a small, grey-coated gnat, 
Not half so big as a round little worm 
Pricked from the lazy finger of a maid. 
Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut, 
Made b}'- the joiner squirrel, or old grub, 
Time out of mind the fairies' coach-makers: 



MERCUTIO. 13 

And in this state she gallops night by night 
Through lovers' brains, and then the}- dream of love: 
On courtiers' knees, that dream on court'sies straight: 
O'er lawyer's fingers, who straight dream on fees : 
O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream ; 
Which oft the angry Mab with blisters j^lagues, 
Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are. 
Sometime she gallops o'er a courtier's nose, 
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit : 
And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig's tail. 
Tickling a parson's nose as 'a lies asleep, 
Then dreams he of another benefice : 
Sometime she driveth o'er a soldier's neck. 
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, 
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades, 
Of healths five fathom deep ; and then anon 
Drums in his ears, at which he starts and wakes ; 
And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two, 
And sleeps again. This is that very Mab — 

Rom. Peace, peace ! Mercutio, peace ! 
Thou talk'st of nothing. 

Mer. True, I talk of dreams : 

Which are the children of an idle brain. 
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy ; 
Which is as thin of substance as the air; 
And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes 
Even now the frozen bosom of the North ; 
And, being anger'd, putfs away from thence, 
Turning his face to the dew-dropping South. 

Ben. This wind, you talk of, blows us from our- 
selves ; 



14 MERCUTIO. 

Supper is done, and we shall come too late. 

^Crosses. 
Rom. I fear too early ; for my mind misgives, 
Some consequence, yet hanging in the stars, 
Shall bitterly begin his fearful date 
With this night's revels ; and expire the term 
Of a despised life, closed in my breast, 
By some vile forfeit of untimely death : 
But He, that hath the steerage of my course, 
Direct my sail ! — On, lusty gentlemen. [^Exeunt. 



Scene II : — An open Place adjoining Captdet's Gar- 
den. Enter Benvolio and Mercutio, l. 

Ben. Eomeo ! ni}^ cousin Romeo ! 

3Ier. He is Avise ; 
And, on mj- life, hath stolen him home to bed. 

Ben. He ran this way, and leaped this orchard 
wall. 
Call, good Mercutio. 

3Ier. Na}*, I'll conjure, too. — 
Eomeo ! humors ! madman ! passion ! lover ! 
Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh : 
Speak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied ; 
Cry but — Ah, me ! — couple but — love and dove ; 
Speak to ray gossip Venus one fair Avord, 
One nick-name for her purblind son and heir! 
Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so trim, 
When king Cophetua loved the beggar maid. 
He heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth notj 



MERCUTIO. 15 

The ape is dead, and I must conjure him, — 
I conjure thee by Rosaline's bright eyes, 
By her high forehead, and her scarlet lip. 
That in thy likeness thou appear to us. 

Ben. And if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him. 

Mer. This can not anger him ! My invocation 
Is fair and honest, and in his mistress' name 
I conjure, only but to raise up him. 

Ben. Come, he hath hid himself among these trees. 
To be consorted with the humorous night : 
Blind is his love, and best befits the dark. 

Mer. Borneo, good night ! — I '11 to my truckle-bed. 
This field -bed is too cold for me to sleep ! 
Come, shall we go ? 

Ben. Go, then: for 'tis in vain 
To seek him here, that means not to be found. 

[Exeunt, r. 

Scene III : — The Street. Enter Benvolio and 
Mercutio, l. 

Mer. Where the devil should this Romeo be? 
Came he not home to-night? 

Ben. Not to his father's; I spoke with his man. 

Mer. Why, that same j^ale, hard-hearted wench, 
that Rosaline, 
Torments him so, that he will sure run mad. 

Ben. Tybalt, the kinsman to old Capulet, 
Hath sent a letter to his father's house. 

Mer. A challenge, on my life ! 

Ben. Romeo will answer it. 



16 MERCUTIO. 

Mer. Alas, poor Eomeo, he is already dead ! 
Btabbed with a white wench's black eye ; shot 
through the ear with a love-song ; the very pin of 
his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy's butt-shaft!— 
And is he a man to encounter Tybalt? 

Ben. Why, what is Tybalt? 

Mer. Oh, he 's the courageous captain of compli- 
ments : he fights, as you sing prick-song ; keeps 
time, distance, and proportion ; rests me his minim 
rest — one, two, and the thii'd in your bosom ; the 
very butcher of a silk button, a dviellist, a duellist; 
a gentleman of the very first house — of the first 
and second cause; ah, the immortal jjassado ! the 
punto reverse ! the hai ! — 

Beji. The what ! 

3Ier. The plague of such antic, lisping, affected 
fantasticoes, these new tuners of accents ! — 2Ia foi, 
a very good blade ! a very tall man ! a very fine 
wench ! — why, is not this a lamentable thing, 
grandsire, that we should be thus afflicted with 
these strange flies, these fashion-mongers, these 
pardonnez-mois ! 

Ben. Here comes Eomeo, here comes Eomeo ! 

Mer. Without his roe, like a dried herring. Oh, 
flesh, flesh, how art thou fishitied ! Now is he for 
the numbers that Petrarch flowed in ; Laura to his 
lady was but a kitchen -Avench ; marry, she had a 
better love to be-rhyme her : Dido, a dowdy ; Cleo- 
patra, a gipsy ; Helen and Hero, hildings and 
harlots ; Thisbe, a gray eye or so, but not to the 
purpose. — 



MERCUTIO. 17 

Enter Eomeo, r. 

Signior Eomco, bon jour ! there 's a French salutation 
for you. 

Ro7n. Good morrow to you both. 

Mer. You gave us the counterfeit fairly last night. 

Horn. What counterfeit did I give you ? 

3Ier. The slip, sir, the slip ; can you not conceive ? 
Eomeo, will you come to your father's? we'll to 
dinner there. 

Jiom. I will follow you. [Exeunt. 

Scene IV : — The Street. Enter Mercutio and 
Benvolio, l. 

Ben. I pray thee, good Mercutio, let 's retire ; 
The day is hot, the Capulets abroad, 
And if we meet, we shall not 'scape a brawl ; 
For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring. 

Mer. Thou art like one of those fellows that, 
when he enters the confines of a tavern, claps me 
his sword upon the table, and says, God send me no 
need of thee; and by the operation of the second 
cup, draws it on the drawer, when, indeed, there 
is no need. 

Ben. Am I like such a fellow ? 

Mer. Come, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy 
mood as any in Italy ; an there were two such, we 
should have none shortly, for one would kill the 
other. Thou ! why thou wilt quarrel with a man 
that hath a hair more or a hair less in his beard 

D. S.-2. 



IS MERCUTIO. 

than thou hast. Thou wilt quarrel with a man 
for cracking nuts, having no other reason hut he- 
cause thou hast hazel eyes : what c^-e hut such an 
eye would spy out such a quarrel ? Thy head is as 
full of quarrels as an eg;g is full of meat. Thou hast 
quarreled with a man for coughing in the str.eet, be- 
cause he hath wakened thy dog that hath lain asleep 
in the sun. Didst thou not fall out with a tailor for 
wearing: his new doublet before Easter? with another, 
for tying his new shoes with old ribbon? and yet 
thou wilt tutor me for quarreling ! 

Ben. An I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, 
any man should buy the fee-simple of my life for an 
hour and a quarter. — By my head, here come the 
Capulets. 

3fer. Hy my heel, I care not. 

Ente7' Tybalt, r. 

Tyb. l^Spealdng as he enters.'] Follow me close, 
for I will speak to them. 
Gentlemen, good den ! A word with one of 3'ou. 

Mer. And but one w^ord Avith one of us ? Couple 
it with something : make it a word and a blow. 

Tijb. You shall find me apt enough to that, sir, 
if you Avill give me occasion. 

Mer. Could you not take some occasion, Avithout 
giving? 

Tyb. Mercutio, thou consort'st Avith Eomeo. 

Mer. Consort! What, dost thou make us min- 
strels? If thou make minstrels of us, look to hear 



MERCUTIO. 19 

nothing but discords: here's my fiddle-stick; here's 
that shall make 3'ou dance. Zounds ! consort ! 

[^Laying his hand on his sword. 
Ben. We talk here in the public haunt of men : 
Either withdraw unto some private place, 
Or reason coldly of your grievances, 
Or else depart: here all eyes gaze on us. 

3fer. Men's eyes were made to look, and let them 
gaze : 
I Avill not budge for no man's pleasure, I. 

Tijb. Well, peace be with you, sir : here comes 

my man. 
Jller. But I '11 be hanged, sir, if ho wear your 
livery. 

Enter Eomeo, l. 

Tyb. Eomeo, the hate I bear thee can afford 
No better term than this, — thou art a villain. 

Eom. Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee, 
Doth much excuse the appertaining rage 
To such a greeting : — villain I am none : 
Therefore, farewell ; I see, thou know'st me not. 

Tyb. Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries 
That thou hast done me ; therefore turn and draw. 

Horn. I do protest. I never injured thee. 
But love thee better than thou canst devise, 
Till thou shalt know the reason of my love : 
And so, good Capulet, (which name I tender 
As dearly as my own,) be satisfied. 

[Exeunt Eomeo, r., Tybalt, l. 



20 MERCUTIO. 

Mer. Oh, calm, dishonorable, vile submission! 
A la stoccata carries it away. [Draws. 

Tybalt — you rat-catcher ! will you walk ? 

Re-enter Tybalt, l. 

Tyb. What would'st thou have with me? 

Mer. Good king of cats, nothing but one of your 
nine lives; that I mean to make bold withal. Will 
you pluck your sword out of his jjilcher by the cars? 
Make haste, lest mine be about your ears ere it be 
out. 

Tyb. I am for you. [^Drawing. 

He-enter Romeo, r. 

Bom. Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up. 
Mer. Come, sir, your passado. 

[Mercutio and Tybalt fight. 
Bom. Draw, Bcnvolio ; 
Beat down their weapons: — gentlemen, for shame 
Forbear this outrage ! Tybalt — Mercutio — 
The prince expressly hath forbid this bandying 
In Verona streets; 

Hold, Tybalt ; — good Mercutio. 
[Exit Tybalt, having icounded Mercutio, r. 
Mer. I am hurt : — 
A ])lague o' both the houses ! — I am sjjed ! 
Is he gone, and hath nothing? 
Bom. What, art thou hurt? 



MERCUTIO. 21 

Mer. Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch: — marry, 'tis 
enough. — Go, fetch a sui'gcon. 

Iio7n. Courage, man : the hurt can not be much. 

Mer. No : 't is not so deep as a well, nor so Avide 
as a church door ; but 't is enough — 't will serve : 
ask for me to-morrow, and you shall find me a grave 
man. I am peppered, I Avarrant, for this world.- — 
A plague o' both yoiw houses! — Zounds! a dog, 
a rat, a mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to death ! 
a braggart, a rogue, a villain, that fights by the 
book of arithmetic ! — Why the devil came you 
between us? I was hurt under your arm. 

Jiom. I thought all for the best. 

3Ier. Help me into some house, Benvolio, 
Or I shall faint. A plague o' both your houses ! 
They have made Avorms'-meat of me : 
I have it, and soundly, too. — Your houses ! 

Exeunt Mercutio and Benvolio, l. 

Bom. This gentleman, the prince's near all}'. 
My very friend, hath got his mortal hurt 
In my behalf: my reputation stained 
"With Tybalt's slander, Tybalt, that an hour 
Hath been my kinsman ! Oh, sweet Juliet ! 
Thy beaut}' hath made me eff'eminate, 
And in my temper softened valor's steel. 

Enter Benvolio, l. 

Ben. Oh, Eomeo, Eomeo, brave Mercutio 's dead : 
That gallant spirit hath aspired the clouds, 
Which too untimely here did scorn the earth. 



22 MERCUTIO. 

Rom. This day's black fate on more days doth 
depeiul ; 
This but begins the woe, others must CJid. 

Ben. Hero comes the furious Tybalt back again. 

Rom. Alive! in triumph ! and Mercutio slain ! 
Away to heaven, respective lenit}-, \_Crosses, l. 

And fire-eyed fvivy be my conduct now ! 

Enter Tybalt, l. 

JSTow, T3-balt, take the villain back again, [CVo.s^c.s, ii. 
That late thou guv'st me; for Mercutio's soul 
Is but a little wa}'' above our heads, 
Staying for thine to keep him compan}' : 
Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him. 

Tyh. Thou, wretched boy, that did'st consort him 
here, 
Siialt witli him hence. 

Rom. This shall determine that. 

\_They fight. — Tyv.x\,t falls and dies.. 

Ben. Eomeo, away, begone ! 
The citizens are up, and Tj-balt slain — 
Stand not amazed; the prince will doom thee death, 
If thou art taken. Hence, begone, away ! 

Rom. Oh, I am fortune's fool. 



Curtain. 



MERCUTIO. 23 



COSTUMES. 



EoMEO. — Tight waistcoat, fitting the form down to the middle 
of the tliigh, embroidei'ed, buttoned down front, and girdled 
about the hips; sleeves close-fitting to elbow, and then 
hanging in long, wide pendants; hose; long white cloak, 
Avitli row of buttons down the right shoulder; capuchin, 
or hood, on head and shoulders; long and pointed shoes; 
sword. 

Merci'tio. — Same, but scarlet cloak. 

Benvolio. — Same, but fawn cloak. 

Tybalt. — Fawn cloak, lined with buff and yellow. 



24 DETRACTION. 



DETRACTION; OE, THE COQUETTE 
EENOUNCED. 



From Wi/cherly's Plain Dealer. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Olivia, a witty, unprincipled coquette. 

Eliza, her cousin. 

Lettice, Oliina's ivaiting woman. 

Novel, a pert, railing coxcomb. 

Lord Platsible, a ceremonious, commending hypocrite. 

Manly, a plain-dealing sea-captain, betrothed to Olivia. 

Boy. 

Scene: — Olivia's Lodgings. Enter Olivia, Eliza, 
and Lettice. 

Olivia. Ah, cousin, Avhat a world 't is wc live in ; 
I am so weary of it. 

Eliza. Truly, cousin, I can find no fault with it, 
but that we can not always live in't; for I can 
never be weary of it. 

Oliv. Oh, hideous ! 3'ou can not be in earnest, 
sure, when you say you like the filthy world. 

Eliz. You can not be in earnest, sure, when you 
say you dislike it. 

Oliv. You are a very censorious creature, I find. 



DETRACTION. 25 

EUz. Is it possibfc that the world, which has such 
a variety of charms for other women, can have none 
for jou ? Let 's sec — first, what d' ye think of dress- 
ing and fine clothes ? 

Oliv. Dressing! Fie, fie ! 't is my aversion. But 
come hither, you dowdy ; methinks you might have 
arranged this better. \_Arranging Eliza's mantle^ 
Oh, hideous ! d' ye see how it sits ? 

EUz. Well enough, cousin, if dressing be your 
aversion. 

Oliv. 'T is so ; and for variety of rich clothes, 
they are more my aversion. 

Lettice. Ay, 't is because your ladyship Avears 'em 
too long. 

Oliv. Insatiable creature ! I have not had this 
above three days, cousin, and within this month 
have made some six more. 

EUz. Then your aversion to 'em is not altogether 
so great. 

Oliv. Alas, 't is for Lettice here, only, that I wear 
'em, cousin. 

Let. If it be for me only, madam, pray do not 
wear 'em. 

EUz. But what d' ye think of visits — balls ? — 

Oliv. Oh, I detest 'em. 

EUz. Of plays ? 

Oliv. I abominate 'em; hideous things! 

EUz. What do you say to masquerading in the 
winter, and Hyde Park in the summer? 

Oliv. Insipid pleasures I taste not. 

EUz. What think you of a rich, young husband ? 

D. S.— 3. 



26 DETRACTION. 

Oliv. Oh, horrid ! Marriage ! I nauseate it of 
all things. 

Let. But Avhat does your ladyship think, then, 
of a handsome, young lover ? 

Ofiv. A handsome young fellow ! you imj^udent ! 
Begone out of my sight ! Name a handsome young 
fellow to me ! Fall ! a hideous, handsome young 
fellow I abominate. 

JEliz. Indeed ! But let's see ; will nothing please 
you? 

Oliv. Peace, cousin, or your discourse will be my 
aversion. 

Eliz. Yes ; for if any thing be a woman's aver- 
sion, 't is plain dealing from another woman ; and 
perhaps that 's your quarrel with the world ; for 
that will talk. 

Oliv. Talk ? not of me, sure ; for what men do I 
converse with ? what visits do I admit ? 

Enter Boy. 

Boy. Here 's the gentleman to Avait upon you, 
madam. 

Oliv. On me ! You little, unthinking fop, d' ye 
know what you say ? 

Boy. Yes, madam ; 't is the gentleman that comes 
every day to you, Avho — 

Oliv. Hold your peace, you heedless little ani- 
mal, and get you gone. This country boy, cousin, 
takes my dancing-master or the milliner for vis- 
itors. [Exit Boy. 



DETRACTION. 27 

Let. No, madam ; 't is Mr. Novel, I 'm sure, by 
his talking so loud. I know his voice, too, madam. 

Oliv. You know nothing, you buffle-headed, stU2)id 
creature you ; you would make my cousin believe I 
receive visits. But if it be Mr. — what did you call 
him ? 

Let. Mr. Novel, madam; he that — 

Oliv. Hold your jDcacc ; I '11 hear no more of 
him; but if it be 3'our Mr. — I can't think of his 
name again — I suj^pose he has folloAved m}^ cousin 
hither. 

Eliz. No, cousin, I will not rob you of the honor 
of the visit. 'T is you, cousin, for I know him not. 

Oliv. Nor did I ever hear of him before, upon 
my honor, cousin ; besides, ha' n't I told you that 
visits, flattery, and detraction are my aversion ? 
D' 3'e think, then, I would admit such a coxcomb 
as he is? 

Eliz. I find you do know him, cousin; at least, 
have heard of him. 

Oliv. Yes, no\V I remember, I have heard of him. 

Eliz. Well ; but since he is such a coxcomb, for 
heaven's sake, let him not come up. Tell him, Let- 
tice, that your lady is not in. 

Oliv. No, Lettice ; tell him my cousin is here, 
and that he may come up. 

Eliz. I know him not, nor desire it. Send him 
away, Lettice. 

Oliv. Upon my word, she sha n't. I must diso- 
bey 3^our commands, to comply with your real 
wishes. Call him up, Lettice. 



28 DETRACTION. 

Eliz. Nfiy, she shall not stir on this errand. 

\_Holds Lettice. 

Oliv. Well, then, I '11 call him myself for 3'ou, 
since you Avill have it so. Mr. Novel! \_Calls out 
at door. 'I Sir, sir ! 

Enter Novel. 

Novel. Madam, I beg your pardon ; perhaps you 
were busy. I did not think you had company Avith 
you. 

Eliz. \_Aside'\ Yet he comes to me, cousin ! 

Oliv. Chairs there. [_They sit. E.mt Lettice. 

Nov. Well ; but, madam, do you knoAv whence I 
come now? 

Oliv. From some melancholy place, I warrant, 
sir, since they have lost 3'our good company. 

Eliz. So. 

Nov. From a place where they treated me, at 
dinner, with so much kindness and civility, that I 
could hardly get away to you, dear madam. 

Oliv. You have a way with you so new and 
obliging, sir. 

Eliz. \_Aside to Olivia] You hate flattery, cousin ! 

Nov. Nay, faith, madam, do you think my way 
new? Then you are obliging, madam. I must 
confess, I hate imitation — to do any thing like 
other people. All that know me do me the honor 
to say I am original. But, as I Avas saying, madam, 
I ha\'e been treated to-day Avith all the ceremon}' 
and kindness imaginable, at my Lady Autumn's; 



DETRACTION. 29 

hut the nauseous old woman at the upper end of 
the table — 

OUi\ I detest her hollow, cherry cheeks; she 
looks like an old coach new painted ; affecting an 
unseemly smugness, while she is ready to drop in 
pieces. 

EUz. \_Aside to Olivia] You hate detraction, I see, 
cousin ! 

Nov. But the silly old fury, while she affects to 
look like a woman of this age, talks — 

Oliv. Like one of the last. 

Nov. Yes, madam ; but pray let me give you her 
character. Then, she never counts her age by the 
years, but — 

Oliv. By the masques she has lived to see. 

Nov. Nay, then, madam, I see you think a little 
harmless railing too great a pleasure for any one but 
yourself, and therefore I 've done. 

Oliv. Nay, faith, you shall tell me who you had 
there to dinner. 

Nov. If you would hear me, madam. 

Oliv. Most patiently ; sj^eak, sir. 

Nov. Then we had her daughter — 

Oliv. Ay, her daughter, the very disgrace to good 
clothes, which she alwaj's wears but to heighten her 
deformity, not mend it; for she is still more splen- 
didly, gallantly ugly, and looks like an ill piece of 
daubing in a rich frame. 

Nov. So ! But have j^ou done Avith her, madam, 
and can 3'ou spare her to me a little now? 

Oliv. A}^, ay, sir. 



30 DETRACTION. 

Nov. Then slic is like — 

Oliv. She is, you 'd saj^, like a cit}- bride, the 
greater fortune, but not the greater beauty for her 
dress. 

Nov. Well ; have you done, madam ? Then, 
she — 

Oliv. Then she bestows as unfortunately on her 
face all the graces in fashion, as the languishing eye, 
or the pouting lip. 

Eliz. Cousin, I find one may have a collection of 
all one's acquaintances' pictures at your house as at 
an artist's. 

Oliv. I draw after the life ; I do nobody wrong, 
cousin. 

Bllz. No; jTju hate flatter}' and detraction. 

Oliv. But, Mr. ]^ovcl, who had you besides at 
dinner? 

Nov. Nay, I '11 not tell jow, unless you Avill allow 
me the ])rivilege of railing in my turn; but, noAV I 
think on 't, the women ought to be your province, 
as the men are mine; and 3^ou must know Ave had 
him whom — 

Oliv. Him whom — 

Nov. "What! invading me alread}', and giving the 
character before you know the man ? 

Eliz. No, that is not fair, though it be usual. 

Oliv. I beg your j^ardon, Mr. Novel ; pray go on. 

Nov. Then, I say, we had that familiar coxcomb 
who is at home Avheresoe'er he comes. 

Oliv. Ay, that fool — 

Nov. Nay then, madam, your servant-; I 'm gone. 



DETRACTION. 31 

Taking a fool out of one's mouth is worse than taking 
the bread out of one's teeth. 

Oliv. I 've done ; your pardon, Mr. Novel ; pray 
proceed. 

JVov. I say, the rogue, that he may be the only 
wit in the company, will let nobody else talk, and — 

Oliv. Ay, those fops who love to talk all them- 
selves are my aversion. 

Nov. Then you '11 let me speak, madam, sure. 

Oliv. Pr'ythee, tell us who else was with you there. 

Nov. "We had nobody else. 

Oliv. Nay faith, you. had. Come, ni}^ Lord Plaus- 
ible was there, too, who is, cousin, a — 

Eliz. You need not tell me what he is, cousin ; 
for I know him to be a civil, good-natured, harmless 
gentleman, that speaks well of all the world, and is 
always in good humor, and — 

Oliv. Hold, cousin, hold ; I hate detraction, but I 
must tell 3'ou, cousin, his civility is cowardice; his 
good nature, want of wit ; and he has neither courage 
nor sense to rail ; and for his being always in humor, 
'tis because he is never dissatisfied Avith himself. In 
fine, he is my aversion ; and I never admit his visits 
bej'ond ni}^ hall. 

Nov. No ; he visit you ! cringing, grinning rogue! 
If I should sec him coming up to 3'ou, I Avould make 
bold to kick him down again. Ha! — 

Enter Lord Plausible. 

M}' dear Lord Plausible, your most humble servant. 
[Ttises and salutes 1'laus., and kisses him. 



32 DETRACTION. 

Eliz. [^Asidcl vSo I find kissing and railing follow 
each other with angry men, as well as with angry 
women. 

L. P. Your most faithful, humble servant, gener- 
ous Mr. Novel ; and, madam, I am your eternal slave, 
and kiss your fair hands, which I had done sooner, 
according to 3'our commands, but — 

Olio. No excuses, my lord. 

Eliz. l^Aside'] What ! you sent for him. then, cousin. 

Nov. [^Aside] Ha ! invited ! 

OUv. I know you must divide yourself; for your 
good company is too general a good to be engrossed 
by any particular friend. 

L. P. Oh Lord, madam, my company ! Your 
most obliged, faithful, humble servant. But I could 
have brought 3-ou good company, indeed, for I parted 
at the door with two of the worthiest, bravest men — 

OUv. Who Avere they, my lord? 

Nov. Who do you call the worthiest, bravest men, 
pray ? 

L. P. O, the wisest, bravest gentlemen ! men of 
such honor and virtue ! of such good qualities ! Ah — 

Eliz. \_Aside\ This is a coxcomb that speaks ill of 
all people in a different way, and libels every body 
with dull praise, and commonly in the wrong place, 
so as to make his panegyrics abusive lampoons. 

L. P. Ah ! such patterns of heroic virtue ! such— 

OUv. But praj^ let me know who they were. 

L. P. The honor of our nation, the glor}" of our 
age. Ah ! I could dwell a twelvemonth on their 
praise, which, indeed, I might spare by telling their 



DETRACTION. 83 

names — Sir John Current and Sir Eichard Court- 
title. 

^^v. Court-title ! Ha, ha ! 

Olio. And Sir John Current ! Why will you keep 
such a wretch comj)any, my lord ? 

Jj. P. Oh, madam, seriously, you are a little too 
severe, for he is a man of unquestioned reputation 
in every thing, 

Oliv. Yes, because he endeavors only with the 
women to pass for a man of courage, and with the 
bullies for a wit ; with the wits for a man of business, 
and with the men of business for a favorite at court; 
and at court for good city security. 

]Vov. And for Sir Richard, he — ■ 

i. P. He loves your choice, picked company ; 
persons that — 

Oliv. He loves a lord, indeed ; but — 

Nov. Pray, dear madam, let me have but a bold 
stroke or two at his picture. He loves a lord, as you 
say, though — ■ 

Oliiy. Though he borrowed his money, and ne'er 
paid him again. 

JSfov. And would besj^eak a place three dajs before, 
at the back end of a lord's coach, to Hyde Park. 

!/. P. Nay, i' faith, i' faith, you are both too severe. 

Oliv. Then, to show yet more his passion for qual- 
ity, he makes love to that fulsome coach-load of honor, 
my Lady Goodly; for he is always at her lodging. 

L. P. Because it is the conventicle-gallant, the 
meeting-house of all the fair ladies, and glorious, 
superfine beauties of the town. 



34 DETRACTION. 

Nov. Veiy fine ladies ! There is, first — 

Oliv. Her honor, as fat as an hostess. 

L. P. She is something plump, indeed ; a good, 
comely, graceful person. 

Nov. Then, there's my Lady Frances — what 
d' 3'e call her ? Ugly — 

L. P. She has wit in abundance, and the ver}' 
handsomest heel, elbow, and tip of an ear you ever 
saw. 

Nov. Heel and elbow ! ha, ha ! And there 's my 
lady Betty, you know — 

Oliv. As slatternly as an Irish woman bred in 
France. 

L. P. Ah ! all she has hangs with a loose air, 
indeed, and becoming negligence. 

Eliz. You see all faults with lover's eyes, I find, 
my lord. 

L. P. Ah, madam, j^our most obliged, faithful, 
humble servant to command ! But you can say 
nothing, sure, against the superfine Mrs. — 

Oliv. I know who you mean. She is as censo- 
rious and detracting a jade as a superannuated 
spinster. 

L. P. She has a smart way of raillery, it must 
be confessed. 

Nov. And then, for Mrs. Grideline — 

L. P. She, I 'm sure, is — 

Oliv. One that never spoke ill of any body, 'tis 
confessed ; for she is as silent in conversation as a 
country lover, and no better companj" than a clock 
or a weather-glass; for, if she sounds, 'tis but once 



DETRACTION. 35 

an hour, to put you in iniiid of the time of day, or to 
tell j'oii 'twill be cold or hot, rain or snow. 

L. P. Ah, poor creature ! she 's extremely good 
and modest. 

Nov. And for Mrs. Bridlechin, she — 

Oliv. As proud as a churchman's wife. 

L. P. She 's a woman of great spirit and honor, 
and will not make herself cheap, 'tis true. 

Nov. Then Mrs. Hoyden, that calls all people by 
their sirnames, and is — 

Oliv. As familiar as a duck. 

L. P. Mrs. Hoyden ! a poor, affable, good-natured 
soul. But the divine Mrs. Trifle comes thither, too ; 
sure, her beauty, virtue, and conduct you can say 
nothing to? 

Oliv. No! 

Nov. No ! — Pray let me speak, madam. 

Oliv. First, can any one be called beautiful that 
squints ? 

L. P. Her eyes languish a little, I own. 

Nov. Languish ! ha, ha ! 

Oliv. Languish ! Then for her conduct — 

Eliz. [Rising'] Cousin, pardon me ; I must bo 
going. 

Oliv. You will not, sure ; nay, ^''ou shall not, ven- 
ture 5'our reputation b}^ going, and mine by leaving 
me alone with two men here; nay, you'll disoblige 
me forever, if — 

Eliz. If — I stay. Your servant. \_Exit. 

Nov. I saw your old lover this morning. Cap- 
tain — [WJiLspers. 



36 DETRACTION. 

Enter Captain Manly behind. 

Oliv. Whom ? You need not whisper. 

3Ian. [Aside'] I am luckily got here unobserved. 
How ! In close conversation with these supple 
rascals ? 

Oliv. Manly returned, do you say? And is he 
safe ? [ Whis2Mrs to Plausible. 

Man. \_Aside^ She yet seems concerned for my 
safety; and perhaps they are admitted here now 
but for their news of nie. 

Oliv. I heard of his fighting only, without par- 
ticulars ; and confess I always loved his brutal 
cournge, because it made me hope it might rid me 
of his more brutal love. 

Man. [Aside'] What's that? 

Nov. He has no use of his arms but to set 'em on 
kimbo ; for he never pulls off his hat, at least not 
to me, I'm sure ; for you must know, madam, he has 
a fantastical hatred to good company ; he can't abide 
me. 

JO. P. Oh, be not so severe on him as to say he 
hates good company ; for I assure you he has a great 
respect, esteem, and kindness for me. 

Oliv. Well, if he be returned, Mr. Novel, then 
shall I be pestered again with his boisterous sea love ; 
have my alcove smell like a cabin, my chamber per- 
fumed with his tarpaulin Brandenburg, and hear 
volleys of brandy sighs enough to make a fog in 
one's room. Fah ! I hate a lover that smells like 
Thames Street ! 



DETRACTION. 37 

Man. \^Aside\ I ciin bear no longer, and need hear 
no more. [Gomes foricard.'j But since you have 
these two pulvillio-boxes, these essence-bottles, tl\;:^ 
l^air of musk-cats here, I hope I may venture to 
come yet nearer you. 

Oliv. Overheard us, then ! 

JVby. [J..S(x/e] I hope he heard not me. 

Ij. p. Most noble and heroic captain, your most 
obliged, faithful, humble servant. 

JVov. Dear tar, thy humble servapt. 

ilia??. xVway. — Madam — 

Oliv. Nay, I think I have fitted 3^011 for listening. 

2fan. \_Thrusts Novel and Plausible on each side, 
and confronts Olivia.] You have fitted me for be- 
lieving you could not be fickle, though you were 
young; nor be vain, though you were handsome; 
nor break your promise, though to a parting lover ; 
nor abuse youv best friend, though you had wit : but 
I take your contempt of me not worse than your 
esteem of these things here, though you know 'em. 

Nov. Things ! 

L. P. Let the captain rally a little. 

Man. Yes, things. Canst thou be angiy, thou 
thing? \_Coming vp to Novel.] Madam, tell me, 
pray, what was it about this spark could take you? 
Was it the merit of his fashionable impudence, the 
briskness of his noise, the wit of his laugh, his judg- 
ment or fancy in his garniture? or was it a well- 
trimmed glove, or the scent of it that charmed yon? 
Then, madam, [turning to Lord Plaus.] for this 
gentle piece of courtesy, this man of tame honor, 



38 DETRACTION. 

what could .you find in him? Was it his languish- 
ing, affected tone, his mannerly look, his second- 
hand flattery, his slavish obsequiousness, or his 
jaunty way of playing with your flm that won your 
heart ? 

Nov. Ha, ha ! I can not hold ; I must laugh. 

L. P. And, i' faith, dear captain, I beg your par- 
don and leave to laugh at jovl, too, though I protest 
I mean you no hurt. Ha, ha ! 

Man. Why, j^ou impudent, pitiful wretches; you 
l^resumc, sure, upon your effeminacy to urge me ; for 
you are in all things so like women, that you may 
think it in me a kind of cowardice to beat you. 

Nov. No hectoring, good captain. 

Man. Or pei-haps you think this lady's presence 
secures you. But have a care ; she has talked her- 
self out of all the respect I had for her, and by using 
me ill before j'ou, has given me a privilege of using 
you so before her ; but if you would preserve your 
respect to her, and not be beaten before her, go, be- 
gone immediately. 

Nov. Begone! What? 

L. P. Nay, worthy, noble, generous captain ! 

Man. Begone, I say. 

Nov. Begone again! to us, begone!' 

Man. No chattering, baboons I instantly begone ! 
or — [Manly j9?/fs them out of the room; Novel 
struts, Plausible ni7iges.'] 

Oliv. Turn hither your rage. 

3fa)i. Olivia, you heard that chance has used me 
scurvil}^ therefore you do, too. Well, persevere in 



DETRACTION. 39 

your ingratitude, falsehood, and disdain.; have con- 
stancy in something, and I promise you to be as just 
to your real scorn as I was to your feigned love, and 
henceforth will despise, contemn, hate, loathe, and 
detest you most faithfully. 

Curtain. 



COSTUMES. 

Olivia. — Elegant dress of silk or satin, with voluminous train; 
simple trimmings; arms bare to the elbow; pearl necklace; 
hair in long ringlets, confined by a band of pearls. 

Eliza. — Rich train dress; lace mantle; hair adorned with a 
rose; hat and feathers. 

Lettice. — Short dress; brown Holland apron; profusion of 
jewelry. 

Lord Plausible. — Short doublet, open in front, displaying a 
rich, ruffled shirt-bosom; loose breeches, fastened around 
the Avaist by an embroidered band ; large, full sleeves, or- 
namented with ribbons; beneath the knee, long, drooping 
lace ruffles; lace collar; high-crowned hat, with plume of 
feathers; periwig, consisting of a profusion of curls hang- 
ing down the back and shoulders; dress sword. 

Novel. — Similar to Plausible, but more negligent. 

Manly. — Blue pants and jacket; belt; low-crowned hat with 
long band ; sword. 



40 BONII-ACE. 



BONIFACE. 



From Farquhar's Beaux Stratagem. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
Boniface. Aimwell. Archer. Tapster. 

Scene: — An Inn. Enter Boniface, conducting Ani- 
WELL, in a riding habit ; and Archer, as footman, 
carrying a j^ortmanteau. 

Bon. This Avay, this way, gentlemen. 

Aim. Set down the things ; go to the stable and 
see my horse well rubbed. 

Arch. 1 shall, sir. [_Exit. 

Aim. You 're my landlord, I suppose? 

Bon. Yes, sir ; I 'm old Will Boniface ; pretty 
well known on this road, as the saying is. 

Aim. Oh, Mr. Boniface, your servant. 

Bon. Oh, sir. — What will your honor please to 
drink, as the saying is. 

Aim. I have heard your town of Litchfield much 
famed for ale ; I think I '11 taste that. 

Bon. Sir, I have now in my cellar ten tun of the 
best ale in Staffordshire; 'tis smooth as oil, sweet 
as milk, clear as amber, and strong as brandy, and 



BONIFACE. 41 

will be just fourteen years old the fifth day of 
March next, old style. 

Aim. You 're very exact, I find, in the age of 
your ale. 

Bon. As punctual, sir, as I am in the age of my 
children. I '11 show 3-ou such ale. Here, tapster, 
broach number 170G, as the saying is. Sir, you 
shall taste my anno Domini. I have lived in 
Litchfield, man and boy, above eight-and-fift}- 3'ears, 
and, I believe, have not consumed eight-and-fifty 
ounces of meat. 

Aim. At a meal, you mean, if one ma}- guess your 
sense by your bulk. 

Bon. Not in my life, sir ; I have fed purely upon 
ale ; I have eat my ale, drank my ale, and I always 
sleep upon ale. 

Enter Tapster with a tankard. 

xnTow, sir, 3'ou shall see. [Filling it out^ Your 
worship's health. Ha! delicious, delicious! — fancy 
it Burgund}-, only fancy it, and 't is worth ten 
shillings a quart. 

Aim. [Drinks.'] 'T is confounded strong. 

Bon. Strong ! It must be so, or how Avould avo 
be strong that drink it? 

Aim. And have you lived so long upon this ale, 
landlord ? 

Bon. Eight-and-fifty years, upon my credit, sir; 
but it killed my wife, poor woman ! as the saying is. 

Aim. How came that to pass? 

D. S.-4. 



42 BONIFACE. 

Bon. I do n't know how, sir ; she would not let 
the ale take its natural course, sir ; she was for 
qualifying it ever}' now and then with a dram, as 
the saying is; and an honest gentleman that came 
this way from Ireland made her a present of a dozen 
bottles of usquebaugh — but the poor woman Avas 
never well after; — but, however, I was obliged to 
the gentleman, you know. 

Aim. Why, was it the usquebaugh that killed 
her? 

Bon. My lady Bountiful said so. She, good lady, 
did what could be done ; she cured her of three 
disorders, but the fourth carried her off; but she's 
happy, and I'm contented, as the saying is. 

Enter Archer. 

Arch. ■ Landlord, there are some Fi'cnch gentle- 
men below that ask for you. 

Bon. I'll wait on 'cm. — Does your master stay 
long in town, as the saying is? [Aside to Archer. 

Arch. I can't tell, as the saj'ing is. 

Bon. Come from London ? 

Ai'ch. No. 

Bon. Going to London, majdiaji? 

Arch. No. 

Bon. An odd fellow, this ! [Bar bell rings.^ I 
beg your worship's pardon ; I '11 wait on j-ou in 
half a minute. [E.vit. 

Aim. The course is clear, I see. Now, my dear 
Archer, welcome to Litchfield. 



BONIFACE. 43 

Arch. I thank thee, my dear brothei' in iniquity. 

Aim. Iniquity ! pr'ythee, leave canting. You need 
not change your style with your dress. 

Arch. Don't mistaive me, Aimwell ; for 'tis still 
my maxim that there 'h no scandal like rags, nor any 
crime so shameful as poverty. Men must not bo 
poor: idleness is the root of all evil: the world's 
wide enough, let 'em bustle: fortune has taken the 
weak under her protection, but men of sense are left 
to their industry. 

Ahn. Upon which topic we proceed, and, I think, 
luckily, hitherto. Would not an}' man swear, now, 
that I am a man of quality, and j^ou my servant, 
Avhen, if our intrinsic value Avere known — 

Arcli. Come, come; we are the men of intrinsic 
value who can strike our fortunes out of ourselves ; 
whose worth is independent of accidents in life, or 
revolutions in government: we have heads to get 
money, and hearts to spend it. 

.Enter Boniface. 

Bon. What will your worship please to have for 
supper ? 

Aim. What have you got? 

Bon. Sii*, we have a delicate piece of beef in the 
pot, and a pig at the fire. 

Aim. Good supper-meat, I must confess; but I 
can't eat beef, landlord. 

Arch. And I hate pig. 

Aim. Hold your prating, sirrah ! Do you know 
who vou are? \_Aside. 



44 BONIFACE. 

Bon. Please to bespeak something else ; I have 
every thing in the house. 

Aiin. Have you any veal ? 

JBo7i. Veal ! sir, we had a delicate loin of veal on 
Wednesday last. 

Aim. Have you got any fish or wild-fowl ? 

Bon. As for fish, truly, sir, we are an inland 
town, and indifferently provided with fish, that 's 
the truth on 't; but, then, for wild-fowl — we have a 
delicate couple of rabbits. 

Aim. Get me the rabbits fricasseed. 

Bon. Fricasseed ! La, sir, they '11 cat much 
better smothered with onions. 

Arch. Pshaw! Rot your onions. 

Aiin. Again, sirrah ! — Well, landlord, what you 
please ; — but hold, I have a small charge of money, 
and your house is so full of strangers, that I believe 
it ma}' be safer in j^our custody than mine ; for when 
this fellow of mine gets drunk, he minds nothing. — 
Here, sirrah, reach me the strong box. 

Arch. Yes, sir. — This will give us reputation. 

[_Asi(le. Brings the box. 

Aim. Hero, landlord ; the locks are sealed down, 
both for 3'our security and mine ; it holds somewhat 
above two hundred pounds; if you doubt it, I'll 
count them to you after supper; but be sure you lay 
it whei'c I may have it at a minute's warning ; for 
my affairs are a little dubious at present; perhaps I 
may be gone in half an hour; perhajDs I may be 
your guest till the best part of that be spent; — and, 
pray, order your ostler to keep my horses ready 



BONIFACE. 45 

saddled ; — but one thing above the rest, I must beg, 
that you will let this fellow have none of 3'our anno 
Domini, as you call it; for he's the most insufferable 
sot. — Here, sirrah, light me to my chamber. 

l^Exit, lighted by Archer. 

Arch. Yes, sir. 

Boil. \_Folloxcing with box.'\ I shall do your wor- 
ship's commands, as the saying is. 



46 



BRAGGADOCIO. 




BRAGGADOCIO. 



From The Old Bachelor, by Congreve. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Captain Bluffe, a boasting coward. 
Bellmour, a gay young fellow. 
Sir Joseph Wittol, a credulous, silly knight. 
Sharper, friend to Bellmour. 



Scene I : — The Street. Enter Bellmour and 
Sharper, r., the latter speaking as he enters. 



BRAGGADOCIO. 47 

Sharp. Well, but, George, I have one question to 
ask you — 

Bell. Pshaw, I have prattled away m}- time — I 
hope 3-0U are in no haste for an answer ; for I shan't 
stay now. \_Looks at his tcatch. 

Sharp. Nay, pr'ythee, Grcorge — 

Bell. No ; besides my business, I see a fool coming 
this way. 

Sharp. Whom do you mean ? Oh, here he comes ! 
Stand close, let 'em pass. \_Tl\ey go up. Bluffe and 
WiTTOL cross the stage ^ What in the name of wonder 
is he? [^Conies doicn. 

Bell. (R. c.) Why, a fool. 

Sharp, (l. c.) 'Tis a taAvdry outside. 

Bell. And a very beggarl}' lining; yet he may 
be worth your acquaintance. A little of thy chem- 
istr}', Tom, may extract gold from that dirt. 

Sharp. Say you so? Faith, I am as poor as a 
chemist, and would be as industrious. But what 
was he that followed him ? Is not he a dragon that 
Avatches those golden pippins ? 

Bell. Hang him, no — he a dragon! If he be, 
't is a very j^eaceful one ; I can insure his anger 
dormant; or, should he seem to rouse, 'tis but well 
lashing him, and he will sleep like a top. 

Sharp. Ay, is he of that kidney? 

Bell. Yet is adored by that bigot. Sir Joseph 
Wittol, as the image of valor: he calls him his Back, 
and. indeed, they are Ujever asunder. Yet, last night, 
I know not by Avhat mischance, the knight was alone, 
and had fallen into the hands of some night-walkers, 



48 BRAGGADOCIO. 

who, I suppose, would have pillaged him ; but I 
chanced to conic by, and rescued him ; though, I 
believe, he was heartil}^ frightened ; for, as soon as 
ever he was loose, he ran away, without staying to 
see who helped him. 

Sharp. Is that bully of his in the army ? 

Bell. No, but is a pretender, and wears the habit 
of a soldier, which, now-a-days, as often cloaks cow- 
ardice as a black gown does atheism. You must 
know, he has been abroad — went purely to run 
awa_y from a campaign — enriched himself with the 
plunder of a few oaths, and here vents 'em against 
the general, who, slighting men of merit, and pre- 
ferring only those of interest, has made him quit the 
service. 

Sharp. "Wherein, no doubt, he magnifies his own 
performance. 

Bell. Speaks miracles; is the drum to his own 
praise — the only implement of a soldier he resem- 
bles : like that, being full of blustering noise and 
emptiness. 

Sharp. And, like that, too, of no use but to be 
beaten. 

Bell. Eight : but there the comparison breaks ; 
for he will take a drubbing with as little noise as a 
pulpit cushion. 

Sharp. His name, and I have done. 

Bell. Why, that, to pass it current, too, he has 
gilded with a title : he is called Captain Bluffe. 

Sharp. Well, I '11 endeavor his acquaintance. 

[^Exeunt l. 



BRAGGADOCIO. 49 

Scene II : — Enter Sir Joseph Wittol, Sharper 

folloicing. 

Sharp. (L.) \^Aside\ Sure, that's he, and ah:»ne. 

Sir Jo. (r.) Um ! — Ay, this, — this is the very 
place the inhuman cannibals, the bloody-minded 
villains, would have butchered me last night; no 
doubt they would have flayed me alive, have sold 
my skin, and devoured my members. 

Sharp. [^Aside"] How's this? 

Sir Jo. An it had n't been for a civil gentleman 
as came by, and frightened 'em awa}'. — But. egad, 
I durst not stay to give him thanks. 

Sharp. \_A8ide\ This must be Bellmour he means. 
Ha ! I have a thought. 

Sir Jo. Zooks ! Avould the captain would come. 
The very remembrance makes me quake. Egad, I 
shall never be reconciled to this place heartily. 

Sharp. [Aside] 'Tis but trying, and being where 
I am at worst. Now, luck ! [.Looking about as in 
searchS\ Cursed fortune ! this must be the jDlace, 
this unlucky place — 

Sir Jo. [Aside] Egad, and so 'tis. [Sees Sharper.] 
Why, here has been more mischief done, I jjcr- 
ceive. 

Sharp. [Still looking about'] No, 'tis gone, 'tis lost. 
Ten thousand evils on that chance which drew me 
hither! Ay, here, just here — nothing to be found 
but the despair of what 1 've lost. 

Sir Jo. [Aside] Poor gentleman ! By the Lord 
Harry, I '11 stay no longer; for I 've found, too — 

D. S.— 5. 



50 BRAGGADOCIO. 

Sharp. Hii ! who is 't that has found ? What have 
you found? Restore it quickly, oi* — 

[Goes up to Sir Joseph. 

Sir Jo. Not I, sir, not I, as I 've a soul to be 
saved ; I have found nothing but what has been to 
my loss, as I may say, and as you were saying, sir. 

Sharp. Oh, your servant, sir; you are safe, then, 
it seems; 'tis an ill Avind that blows nobody good. 
AVell you may rejoice over my ill fortune, since it 
jjaid the price of your ransom. 

Sir Jo. I rejoice ! egad, not I, sir ; I 'm very sony 
for 3'our loss, with all my heart blood, sir ; and if 
you did but know me, you 'd ne'er say I was so ill- 
natured. 

Sharjy. Know you ! Why, can you be so ungrate- 
ful to forget me ? 

Sir Jo. O La, forget him ! No, no, sir, I do n't 
forget you — because I never saw your face before, 
egad ! Ha, ha, ha ! 

Sharp. [Angrily'] How! 

Sir Jo. Stay, stay, sir ; let me recollect. [^s?We] 
He's a terribly angiy fellow. I believe I had better 
remember him till I can get out of his sight ; but out 
o' sight out o' mind, egad. 

Sharp. Methought the service I did you last night, 
sir, in j)resei'ving you from those ruffians, might have 
taken better root in your shallow memory. 

Sir Jo. [Aside] Gads — daggers, belts, blades, and 
scabbards ! this is the very gentleman ! How shall 
I make him a return suitable to the greatness of his 
merit? I had a pretty thing to that purpose, if he 



BRAGGADOCIO. 51 

ha' nt frightened it out of 1113' jiicmoiy. Hem, hem. 
[To Sharp.] Sir, I must submissively implore j^our 
pardon for my transgression of ingratitude and 
omission; having my entire dependence, sir, upon 
the superfluity of j'our goodness, wliich, like an 
inundation, will, I hope, totally immerge the recol- 
lection of my error, and leave mc floating, in your 
sight, tipon the full-blown bladders of repentance, 
by the helj) of which I shall hope to once more 
swim into your favor. [Boies. 

Sharp. So-h. — Oh, sir, I am easilj' pacified ; the 
acknowledgment of a gentleman — 

Sir Jo. Acknowledgment, sir! I am all over ac- 
knowledgment, and will not stick to shoAV it in the 
greatest extremity, b}' night or by daj', in sickness 
or in health, winter or summer ; all seasons and oc- 
casions shall testify the reality and gratitude of your 
superabundant humble servant, Sir Josej^h Wittol, 
knight. — Hem, hem. 

Sharp. Sir Joseph Wittol? 

Sir Jo. The same, sir; of Wittol Hall, in comifatu 
Bucks. 

Sharp. Is it possible? Then I am happy to have 
obliged the mirror of knighthood and pink of court- 
esy in the age. Let me embrace you. 

Sir Jo. O La, sir ! 

Sharp. My loss I esteem as a trifle paid with in- 
terest, since it has purchased mo the friendshiji and 
acquaintance of the person in the world whose char- 
acter I admire. 

Sir Jo. You arc only pleased to say so, sir. But 



52 BRAGGADOCIO. 

pray, if I may be so bold, what is the loss you 
mention ? 

Sharp. Oh, term it so no longer, sir. In the 
scuffle last night I only dropped a bill of a hundred 
pound, which, I confess, I came half despairing to 
recover ; biit, thanks to mj^ better fortune — 

Sir Jo. You have found it, sir, then, it seems. I 
profess I 'm heartily glad — 

Sharp. Sir, your humble servant. I don't ques- 
tion but you are, that you have so cheap an opjjor- 
tunity of expressing your generosity and gratitude ; 
since the refunding of so trivial a sum will wholly 
acquit 3'ou and doubly engage me. 

Sir Jo. [Aside] What a dickins does he mean by 
a trivial sum ! But have you found it, sir ? 

Sharp. No otherwise, I vow, but in my hopes in 
you, sir. 

Sir Jo. Hum ! 

Sharp. But that 's sufficient. 'T were injustice to 
doubt the honor of Sir Joseph Wittol. 

Sir Jo. O La, sir ! 

Sharp. You are above, I 'm sure, a thought so 
low, to sutfer me to lose what was ventured in your 
service ; na}', 'twas in a manner paid down for your 
deliverance; 'twas so much lent you; and you 
scorn, I '11 say that for you — 

Sir Jo. Nay, I '11 say that for myself, with your 
leave, sir; I do scorn a dirty thing; — but, egad, 
I 'm a little out of pocket at present. 

Sharp. Pshaw ! j^ou can't Avant a hundred pound. 
Your word is sufficient anywhere. 'T is but bor- 



BRAGGADOCIO. 53 

rowing so much dirt. You have large aci*es, and 
can soon repaj^ it. Money is but dirt, Sir Joseph — 
mere dirt. 

Sir Jo. But 1 profess, 'tis a dirt I have washed 
my hands of at present ; I have laid it all out upon 
my back. 

Sharp. Are you so extravagant in clothes, Sir 
Joseph ? 

Sir Jo. Ha, ha, ha ! a very good jest, I profess. 
Ha, ha, ha ! a very good jest. And I did n't know 
that I had said it, and that's a better jest than 
t' other. 'T is a sign you and I ha' n't been long 
acquainted. You have lost a good jest for want of 
knowing me. I only mean a friend of mine whom 
I call my Back ; he sticks as close to me, and follows 
me through all dangers ; he is, indeed, back, breast, 
and head-piece, as it were, to me. Egad, he 's a 
brave fellow. Paugh ! I am quite another thing 
when I am with him; I don't fear the devil, (God 
bless us,) almost, if he be by. Ah, had he been with 
me last night — 

Sharp. [Aiigrilyl If he had, sir, what then ? He 
could have done no more, nor, perhaps, have suffered 
so much. Had he a hundi-ed pound to lose? 

*S7r Jo. O La, sir, by no means. [Aside'] But 
I might have saved a hundred pound. I meant 
innocentlj', as I hope to be saved, sir. [Aside] What 
a hot fellow. Only, as I was saying, I let him have 
all mj' ready money to redeem his great sword from 
limbo. But, sir, I have a letter of credit to Alder- 
man Fondlewife, as far as two hundred pound ; and, 



54 BRAGGADOCIO. 

this afternoon, you shall sec I am a person such a 
one as you would wish to have met with. 

Sharp. [^Aside] That you are, I'll be sworn. Why, 
that 's great, and like yourself. 

Enter Blufpe, l. 

Sir Jo. (c.) Oh, here he comes — my Hector of 
Tro}- ! Welcome, my bully, my Back ! Egad, my 
heart has gone a-pit-pat for thee. 

Bluffe. How now, my young knight, not for 
fear, I hope? He that knows me must be a stranger 
to fear. 

Sir Jo. Nay, egad, I hate fear ever since I had 
like to have died of a fright. But — 

Bluffe. But look you here, boy, here 's your anti- 
dote, here 's your powder for a shaking fit. [Puts 
his hand upon his sword.'] But who hast thou got 
with thee? Is he of mettle? 

Sir Jo. Ay, bull}-, a very smart fellow, and will 
fight like a cock. 

Bluffe. Say you so? then I honor him. But has 
he been abroad ? for every cock will fight uj^on his 
own dunghill. 

Sir Jo. I do n't knoAv ; but I '11 present you — 

Bluff^e. I '11 recommend mj^self. \_Crosses to c. 
Sir, I honor j^ou ; I imderstand you love fighting ; 
I reverence a man that loves fighting; sir, I kiss 
your hilts. 

Sharp, (r.) Sir, 3-our servant ; but you are mis- 
informed; for, unless it be to serve my particular 



BRAGGADOCIO. 55 

friend, as Sir Joseph here, my oountrj", or my re- 
ligion, or in some very justifiable cause, I 'm not 
for it. 

Bluffe. O La, I beg your pardon, sir; I find you 
are not of my palate ; you can't relish a dish of 
fighting without sweet sauce. Now, I think 

Fighting for fighting's sake 's sufficient cause; 
Fighting to me's religion and the laws. 

Sir Jo. (L.) Ah, well said, my hero. Was not 
that great, sir ? By the Lord Harry, he says true : 
fighting is meat, and drink, and cloth to him. But, 
Back, this gentleman is one of the best friends I 
have in the world, and saved my life last night. — 
You know, I told you. 

Bluffe. Ay ! then I honor him again. Sir, may I 
crave your name ? 

Sharp. Ay, sir, my name 's Sharper. 

Sir Jo. Pray, Mr. Sharper, embrace my Back. 
[Sharper and Bluffe embrace, c] Very well. — 
By the Lord Harry, Mr. Sharper, he 's as brave a 
fellow as Cannibal — are you not, bully Back ? 

Sharp. Hannibal, I believe you mean. Sir Joseph. 

Bluffe. Undoubtedly he did, sir: faith Hannibal 
was a very pretty fellow, but. Sir Joseph, compari- 
sons are odious. — Hannibal was a very pretty fel- 
low in those days, it must be granted ; but, alas ! 
sir, were he alive now, he would be nothing, noth- 
ing in the earth. 

Sharp. How, sir ! — I make a doubt if there be at 
this day a greater general breathing. 



56 BRAGGADOCIO. 

Bluff e. Oh, excuse me, sir — Have you served 
abroad ? 

Sharp. Not I, really, sir. 

Bhiffe. Oh, I thought so. Why, then, you can 
know nothing, sir: I'm afraid you scarce know the 
history of the late war in Flanders, with all its j^ar- 
ticulai's. 

Sharp. Not I, sir ; no more than public letters, 
or the gazette tells us. 

Bluffe. Gazette ! Why there again now. — AVhy, 
sir, there are not three words of truth, the 3'ear 
round, put into the gazette. I '11 tell you a strange 
thing now as to that: — You must know, sir, I was 
resident in Flanders the last campaign — had a 
small post there : but no matter for that. Perhaps 
there was scarce any thing of moment done, but an 
humble servant of yours, that must be nameless, 
was an eye-witness of, — I wo n't .say had the great- 
est share in 't ; though I might say that, too, since 
I name nobody, you know. Well, Mr. Sharper, 
as 1 hope for a truncheon, this gazette-writer never 
so much as once mentioned me — not once, by the 
M^ars — took no moi-e notice than as if Nol. Bluffe 
had not been in the land of the living! 

Sharp. Strange! 

Sir Jo. Yet, by the Lord Harry, it 's true, Mr. 
Sharper ; for I went ever}'" day to coffee-houses to 
read the gazette mj'self. 

Bluffe. Ay, ay ! no matter. You see, Mr. Sharp- 
er, after all, I am content to retire — live a pi'ivate 
person — Scipio and others have done it. 



HRAGGADOCIO. 57 

Sharp. \_Aside:] Impudent rogue ! 
Sir Jo. Ay, this confounded modesty of yours. — 
Egad, if he would put in for 't, he might be made 
general himself yet. 

Bluffe. Oh, fie ! no, Sir Joseph ; you know I liate 
^^^^\ [Crosses to r. 

Sir Jo. Let me but tell Mr. Shai-per a little how 
you ate tire out of the mouth of a cannon. — Egad, 
he did; those impenetrable whiskers of his have 
confronted flames — 

Bluffe. Death ! what do you mean, Sir Joseph ? 
Sir Jo. Look you now, I tell you he 's so modest 
he '11 own nothing. 

Bluffe. Pish ! you have put me out ; I have for- 
got what I Avas about. [Angrily'] Pray hold your 
tongue, and give me leave. 
Sir Jo. I am dumb. 

Bluff. This sword, I think I was telling you of, 
Mr. Sharper, — this sword I'll maintain to be the 
best divine, anatomist, lawyer, or casuist in Europe; 
it shall decide a controversy or split a cause. 

Sir Jo. Nay, now I must speak — it will split a 
hair; b}' the Lord Harry, I have seen it. 

Blnffe. Zounds! sir, it's a lie, you have not seen 
it, nor sha'n't see it ; sir, I say 3-ou can't see it : what 
d 'ye .say to that now ? [In Sm Joseph's /r/ce. 

Sir Jo. I am blind. 

Bluffe. Death ! had any other man interrupted 
"^® — [Returns angrily to r. 

Sir Jo. Good Mr. Sharper, speak to him ; I dare 
not look that way. 



58 BRAGGADOCIO. 

Sharp, (c.) Captain, Sir Joseph is penitent. 

Bluffe. (r.) Oh, I am calm, sir, calm as a dis- 
charged CLilverin. But 'twas indiscreet, when you 
know what will provoke me. Nay, come, Sir Jo- 
seph, you know my heat 's soon over. 

Sir Jo. Well, I 'm a fool sometimes ; but I 'm 
sorry — 

Bluffe. Enough. 

Sir Jo. Come, we '11 go take a glass to drown an- 
imosities. Mr. Sharper, will you partake? 

Sharp. I wait on you, sir ; nay, praj^. Captain, 
you are Sir Joseph's back. \^Exeunt, l. 

Scene III : — Enter Sir Joseph and Bluffe, l. 

Bluffe. And so, out of your unwonted generosity — 

*S'i/' Jo. And good nature. Back ; I am good-na- 
tured, and can't help it. 

Bluffe. You have given him a note upon Fondle- 
wife for a hundred pound. 

Sir Jo. Aj^, ay, poor fellow, he ventured fair 
for it. 

Bluffe. You have disobliged me in it — for I have 
occasion for the money ; and, if 3'ou would look m'e 
in the face and live, go, and force him to redeliver 
you the note — go — and bring it me hither. I'll 
stay here for 3'ou. 

Sir Jo. You may stay till the day of judgment, 
then, by the Lord Harry. I know better things 
than to be run through the body for a hundred 
pounds. Why, I gave that hundred pound for be- 



BRAGGADOCIO. 59 

ing saved, and d 'ye think I 'd be so ungrateful to 
take it from the gentleman again? 

Bluffe. Well, go to him from me — tell him I say- 
he must refund, or bilbo 's the word, and slaughter 
Avill ensue. If he refuse, tell him — but whisper 
that — tell him I'll pink his soul — but whisper 
that sbftl}^ to him. 

Sir Jo. So softly that he shall never hear on 't. 
Why, what 's the matter, bull}', are you mad ? Or 
do you think I'm mad? Egad! for my part I 
do n't love to be the messenger of ill news ; 't is an 
ungraleful office — so tell him yourself. 

Bluffe. B}^ these hilts I believe he frightened you 
into this composition : I believe you gave it him out 
of fear, pure, paltry fear — confess. 

Sir Jo. No, no ; hang 't I Avas not afraid nei- 
ther — though I confess he did in a manner snap 
me up; — yet I can't say it was altogether out of 
fear, but partly to prevent mischief, — for he was a 
very choleric fellow : and [blustering'] if m}- choler 
had been up, too, egad, there would have been mis- 
chief done, that 's flat. And yoi, I believe if you 
had been b}^ I would as soon have let him have 
had a hundred of my teeth. Odds heart, if he 
should come just now, when I am angry — I'd tell 
him — Mum ! 

Enter Sharper and Bellmour, l. 

Bell. (L.) Thou 'rt a lucky rogue ! There 's your 
benefactor ; you ought to return him thanks now 
you have received the favor. 



GO BRAGGADOCIO. 

Sharp. [^Advancing'] Sir Joseph, your note was 
accepted, and the money paid at sight. I 'm come 
to return \i\j thanks. 

Sir Jo. \_Sul/;ily'] They wont be accepted so read- 
il}^ as the bill, sir. 

Bell. (L.) I doubt the knight repents, Tom ; he 
looks like the knight of the sorrowful face. 

Sharj). (c.) This is a double generosity — do me 
a kindness and refuse mj' thanks. But I hope you 
are not offended that I offered them. 

Sir Jo. May be 1 am, sir ; may be I am not, sir ; 
may be I 'm both, sir : what then ? I hope I may 
be offended, without any offense to you, sir. 

Sharp, (c.) Heyday ! Captain, what 's the mat- 
ter? you can tell. 

Bluffe. (r.) Mr. Sharper, the matter is plain — Sir 
Joseph has found out your trick, and does not care 
to be put iipon, being a man of honor! 

Sharp. Trick, sir ? 

,S^(> Jo. A}', trick, sir ; and won't be put upon, 
sir, being a man of honor, sir ! and so, sir — 

Sharp. Hark ye, Sir Joseph, a Avord with ye. 
In consideration of some favors lately received, I 
would not have you draw yourself into a prae- 
munire.! by trusting to that sign of a man there — 
that pop-gun charged with wind. 

Sir Jo. La ! O La ! Captain, come, justify 
j'ourself I '11 give him the lie, if you '11 stand to 
it. 

Sharp. Nay, then, I '11 be beforehand with 3'ou ; 
take that— oaf ! [Cuffs /um. 



BRAGGADOCIO. 61 

Sir Jo. Captain, will 3-011 see this? Won't you 
pink his soul? 

Blvffe. (r.) Hush ! 't is not so convenient now — 
I shall find a time. 

Sharp. What do you mutter about a time, ras- 
cal? You were the incendiary. There's to put 
you in mind of your time — a memorandum. 

[KicJiS him. 

Bliiffe. Oh ! this is your time, sir, you had best 
make use on 't. 

Sharp. Egad, and so I will: there's again for 
you. [KicIiS him. 

Bluffe. You are obliging, sir; but this is too 
public a place to thank you in ; but, in your ear, 
you are to be seen again. 

Sharp. Ay, j^ou inimitable coward, and to be 
felt — as for example — [^Ivicks him. 

Bell. Ha, ha, ha ! Pr'ythee come away ; 't is 
scandalous to kick this puppy, without a man were 
cold, and had no other way to get himself aheat. 

l^Exexnit Bellmour and Sharp., l. 

Bluffe. Yery well — very fine ^ — but 'tis no mat- 
ter. Is not this fine, Sir Joseph? 

Sir Jo. Indifferent ; egad, in my opinion, very 
indifferent. I 'd rather go plain all my life than 
wear such finery. 

Bluffe. Death! To be affronted thus! I'll die 
before I suffer it. [^Draios. 

Sir Jo. O La ! His anger was not raised before. 
Nay, dear Captain, do n't be in a passion, now he 's 
gone. Put up, put up, dear Back ! 't is your Sir 



62 BRAGGADOCIO. 

Josejih who begs. Come, let me kiss thee. — So, so, 
put xip, put Tip ! 

Bluffe. By my valor ! 't is not to be put up ! 

Sir Jo. What, bully? 

Bluffe. The affront ! 

Sir Jo. No, egad ! no more 't is, for that 's put 
up already: thy sword, I mean. 

Bluffe. Well, Sir JosejDh, at thy entreaty. But 
were not you, my friend, abused, and cuffed, and 
kicked ? [Putting up his sword. 

Sir Jo. Ay, ay ! so were you, too. No matter, 
't is past. 

Bluffe. B}^ the immortal thunder of great guns ! 
't is false. He sucks not vital air who dares affirm 
it to this face ! [Looks big. 

Sir Jo. To that face I grant you, Cai^tain. — No, 
no, I grant you — not to that face, by the Lord 
Hany ! If you^ had put on your fighting face be- 
fore you had done his business, he durst as soon 
have kissed you as kicked you to your face. But 
a man can no more help what 's done behind his 
back than what 's said. Come, we '11 think no 
more of what 's past. 

Bluffe. I '11 call a council of war within, to con- 
sider of my revenge to come. [Exeunt. 



COSTUMES. 

Bluffe. — Tight jacket with sleeves ; short trowsers ; high boots ; 
metallic back, breast, and head-piece, the last a pot-helmet; 
immense beard ; sword ; two large pistols. 



BRAGGADOCIO. 63 

WiTTOL. — Swallow-tailed buff coat, embroidered with tarnished 
gilt, with large, loose sleeves, and the collar covered by a 
falling band of dirty lace;, breeches tied below the knee 
with ribbon; hose; shoes fastened with yellow ribbon; felt 
hat with a soiled plume; sword; peaked beard. 

Bellmour. — Silk doublet with loose sleeves slashed xip the 
front; collar of rich pointed lace ; short cloak, worn care- 
lessly on one shoulder; long breeches; wide boots, ruffled 
at top with lace or lawn; broad-leafed Flemish beaver hat, 
with rich hat-band and plume of feathers; a Spanish rapier, 
hung from a rich sash worn over the right shoulder; small 
mustaches turned up. 

Sharper. — Same as Bellmour, except as to colors and style of 
ornamentation. 



64 KIENZI. 



EIENZI, THE TKIBUNE OF THE PEOPLE. 



From Mitford's Rienzi. 



DRAMATIS PERSON.^. 

Cola di Riknzt, afterward Tribune of the People. 
Albertt, Captain of the Guard. 
Paolo, a Roman Citizen. 

Angelo Colonna, Son of a Roinan Nobleman. 
Soldiers and Citizens. 



Prologue. 

No declamation is more familiar to the lips of 
school-boys than Eienzi's Address to the Pomans. 
In our Play, which is a Scene from the Second Act 
of Miss Mitford's Tragedy, this famous speech ap- 
pears in its proper setting. The harangue of Eien- 
zi is, indeed, the prelude to an exciting scene, which 
culminates in the temporarj' success of a popular 
conspiracy. You will i)lease to imagine the events 
represented on our stage as occurring at night, be- 
fore the gates of the Poman Capitol, and in the four- 
teenth centur}'. 



RIENZI. 65 

Scene: — Before the Gates of the Capitol. — The Stage 
darkened. 

Albert!, Paolo, Citizens, etc., crowd in background. 

\st Cit. (r.) This is tlic chosen sj^ot. A brave 
assemblage ! 

2d Cit. (R. c.) Why, j^es. No marvel that Eienzi 
struck 
So bold a blow. I had heard shrewd reports 
Of heats, and discontents, and gathering bands, 
But never dreamed of Cola. 

Pao. (R.) 'T is the spot! 
Where loiters he? The night wxars on apace. 

Alb. (c.) It is not yet the hour. 

\st Cit. Who speaks? 

Another Cit. Alberti, 
The captain of the guard ; he and his soldiers 
Have joined our ftiction. 

Alb. Comrades, Ave shall gain 
An easy victory. The Ursini, 

Drunk Avith false hope and brute debauch, feast high 
Within their palace. Never Avore emprise 
A fairer face. 

Pao. And yet the summer heaA^en, 
Sky, moon, and stars, are overcast. The saints 
Send that this darkness — 

Enter Rienzi, from 2 e. l., doicn c. 

Rienzi. [^Advancing to thefronf] Darkness! Did ye 
never 
Watch the dark glooming of the thunder-cloud 
D. R.-c. 



66 RIENZI. 

Ere the storm burst? We '11 light this darkness, sir, 
With the brave flash of spear and SAVord. 

Citizens, llienzi ! 
Live, brave Rienzi — honest Cola! 

Rie. Friends ! 

Citizens. Long live Rienzi ! 

Alh. Listen to him. 

Rie. Friends, 
I eoine not here to talk. Ye know too well 
The stor}'' of our thralldom. We are slaves ! 
The bright sun rises to his course, and lights 
A race of slaves ! — He sets, and his last beam 
Falls on a slave, — 

Slaves to a horde 
Of petty tyrants, feudal despots, lords. 
Rich in some dozen paltry villages, — 
Strong in some hundred spearmen, — only great 
In that strange spell — a name! Each hour, dark 

fraud. 
Or open rapine, or protected murder. 
Cries out against them. But this very day. 
An honest man, my neighbor — [^Pointing to Paolo, 

R. corner^ — there he stands. — 
Was struck,— struck like a dog, by one who wore 
The badge of Ursini ; because, forsooth, 
He tossed not high his ready cap in air, 
Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts, 
At sight of that great ruffian ! Be we men. 
And suifer such dishonor? Men, and Avash not 
The stain away in blood ? Such shames are common : 
I have knoAvn deeper Avrongs. I that speak to ye, 



RIENZI. 67 

I had a brother once, — a gracious boy, 

Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope, 

Of sweet and quiet joy ; there was a look 

Of heaven upon his face, which limners give 

To the beloved disciple. How I loved 

That gracious boy ! Younger by fifteen years ; 

Brother at once and son ! He left my side, 

A summer bloom on his fair cheeks, — a smile 

Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour 

The pretty harmless boy was slain ! I saw 

The corse, the mangled corse, and then I ci-ied 

For vengeance ! — Eouse, ye Eomans ! rouse, ye 

slaves ! 
Have ye brave sons? — Look in the next fierce brawl 
To see them die! Have ye fair daughters? — Look 
To see them live, torn from your arms, disdained, 
Dishonored ; and if ye dare call for justice, 
Be answered by the lash ! Yet this is Eome, 
That sat on her seven hills, and from her throne 
Of beaut}^ ruled the world ! And we are Eomans ! 
Why, in that elder day, to be a Eoman 
Was greater than a king! — And once again, 
Hear me, yc walls, that echoed to the tread 
Of either Brutus! — once again, I swear 
The et-ernal city shall be free ! her sons 
Shall walk with princes ! Ere to-morrow's dawn, 
The tyrants — [th'e hack. 

\st at. Hush ! Who passes there ? [Citizens re- 
Alb. A foe, 
By his proud bearing. Seize him ! 
Rie. As I deem. 



68 RIENZI. 

'T is Angelo ColoiiiiJi. Touch him not; 

I would hold parley with him. Good Alberti, 

The hour is nigh. Away! [^Exit Alberti, r. u. e. 

Enter Angelo Colonna, l. 

Now, sir! \_To Angelo. 

A7ig. (L.) What be ye. 
That thus in stern and watchful mystery 
Cluster beneath the veil of night, and start 
To hear a stranger's foot ? 

Bie. Romans. 

Ang. And wherefore 
Meet ye, my countrymen? 

liie. For fi'eedom. 

Ang. Surely 
Thou art Cola di Rienzi ! 

Hie. Ay, that voice, — 
The traitor voice. 

Ang. I knew thee by the words. 
Who, save thyself, in this bad age, when man 
Lies jirostrate like yon temple, dared conjoin 
The sounds of Rome and freedom ? 

Hie. I shall teach 
The world to blend those Avords, as in the daj^s 
Before the Caesars. Thou shalt be the first 
To hail the union. 1 have seen thee hang 
On tales of the world's mistress ; thy young hand 
Hath clenched thy maiden sword. Unsheath it now, 
Now, at thy country's call ! What ! dost thou pause ? 
Is the flame quenched? Dost falter? Hence with 
thee. 



RIENZI. 69 

Pass on ! pass whilst thou may! [_Crosses to l. 

Ang. Heai' me, Eicnzi ! 
Even now my spirit leaps up at the thought 
Of those brave storied days — a treasury 
Of matchless visions, bright and glorified. 
Paling the dim lights of this darkling world 
With the golden blaze of heaven ; but past and gone, 
As clouds of yesterday, as last night's dream. 

Hie. A dream ! Dost see yon phalanx, still and 
stern ? 
An hundred leaders, each with such a band, 
"Wait with suppressed impatience till they hear 
The great bell of the Capitol, to spring 
At once on their proud foes. Join them. 

Ang. My father ! 

Rie. Alreadj'' he hath quitted Eome. 

Ang. My kinsmen ! 

Hie. We are too strong for contest. Thou shalt 
see 
No other change within our peaceful streets 
Than that of slaves to fi-eemen. Such a change 
As is the silent step from night to day. 
From darkness into light. We talk too long. 

Ang. Yet reason with them ; — warn them. 

Hie. And their answer — 
Will be the gaol, the gibbet, or the ax. 
The keen retort of power. Why, I have reasoned ; 
And, but that I am held, amongst your great ones, 
Half madman and half fool, these bones of mine 
Had whitened on yon wall. Warn them ! They met 
At every step dark warnings. 



70 RIENZI. 

Friend met friend, nor smiled, 
Till the last footfall of the tyrant's steed 
Had died upon the ear. 

Sir, the boys, — 
The unfledged boys, march at their mother's best. 
Beside their gi-andsires ; even the girls of Eome, — 
The gentle and the delicate, array 
Their lovers in this cause. I have one yonder, 
Claudia Eienzi, — thou hast seen the maid — 
A silly trembler, a slight fragile toy. 
As ever nursed a dove, or reared a flower, — 
Yet she, even she, is pledged — 

Ang. To whom? to whom? 

Bie. To liberty! 
A king's son 

Might kneel in vain for Claudia. None shall wed her. 
Save a true champion of the cause. 

Ang. I '11 join 3'c : [^Gives his hand to Eienzi. 

How shall I swear? 

Bie. [To the peojyle^ Friends, comrades, country- 
men ! 
I bring unhoped-for aid. Young Angelo craves 
To join your band. 

Citizens. He 's Avelcome ! \_Coming foncard, r. and l. 

Ang. Hear me swear 
By Eome — by freedom — by Eienzi ! Comrades, 
How have j^e titled your deliverer? Consul — 
Dictator, emperor ? 

Bie. No: 
Those names have been so often steeped in blood, 
So shamed by foil}', so profaned by sin. 



RIENZI. 71 

The sound seems ominous, — I '11 none of them. 
Call me the Tribune of the people ; there 
M}' honoring duty lies. 

IThe Citizens shout, Hail to our Tribune! — The 
bell sounds thrice; shouts again; and a militanj 
hand is heard playing a march ivithout, n. u. e. 

Hark ! the bell, the bell ! 

That, to the city and the plain, 

Proclaims the glorious tale 

Of Rome re-born, and Freedom. See, the clouds 

Are swept away, and the moon's boat of light 

Sails in the clear blue sky, and million stars 

Look out on us, and smile. 

[The gate of the Capitol opens, c. f., and Alberti 
and Soldiers join the People, and lay the keys 
at EiENZi's feet. 

Hark ! that great voice 

Hath broke our bondage. Look, without a stroke 

The Capitol is won— the gates unfold — 

The keys are at our feet. Alberti, friend, 

HoAV shall I pay the service? Citizens ! 

First to possess the palace citadel — 

The famous strength of Rome; then to sweep on, 

Triumphant, through her streets. 

\^As RiENZi and the People are entering the Capitol, 
he 2'iauses. 

Oh, glorious wreck 

Of gods and Cffisars ! thou shalt reign again. 



72 RIENZI. 

Queen of the world ; and I — come on, come on, 
My people! 

Citizens. Live Eienzi — live our Tribune! 

\_Exeunt through the gates, in the center of the flat, 
into the Capitol. 

COSTUMES. 

RiENZi. — AVhite toga; buff hose; black sandals. 
Paolo and Colonna. — Togas, and sandals. 
Alberti. — Scarlet and gold Roman uniform; sword. 
Citizens. — Brown stuff dresses; flesh legs; russet sandals. 
Soldiers. — Roman shirts of mail; helmets; spears or battle- 
axes; shields. 



ILL-GOTTEN GOLD. 73 



ILL-GOTTEN GOLD. 



From Milman's Fazio. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
GiRALDi Fazio. Bartolo. 

Scene I : — A room with crucibles and apparatus of 
Alchymy. Fazio discovered seated, (r. c.) 

Faz. Yet he, Bartolo, he is of our rich ones : 
There 's not a galiot on the sea, but bears 
A venture of Bartolo's ; not an acre, 
Na}^, not a villa of our proudest princes. 
But he hath cramped it with a mortgage ; he, 
He only stocks our prisons with his debtors. 
I saw him creeping home last night : he shuddered 
As he unlocked his door, and looked around 
As if he thought that every breath of wind 
Were some keen thief: and when he locked him in, 
I heard the grating key turn twenty times. 
To tr}' if all were safe. I looked again 
From our high window by mere chance, and saw 
The motion of his scanty moping lantern ; 
And, where his wind-rent lattice was ill stuffed 

With tattered remnants of a money-bag, 
D. s.— 7. 



74 ILL-GOTTEN GOLD. 

Through cobwebs and thick dust I S2:)icd his face, 
Like some dry wither-boned anatomy, 
Through a liuge chest-]id, jealously and scantily 
Uplifted, peering upon coin and jewels. 
Ingots and wedges, and broad bars of gold, 
Upon whose luster the wan light shone muddily, 
As though the New World had outrun the Sj^aniard, 
And emptied all its mines in that coarse hovel. 
His ferret eyes gloated as wanton o'er them, 
As a gross Satyr on a sleeping Nymph ! 
And then, as he heard something like a sound. 
He clapped the lid to, and blew out the lantern. 

[He pauses a moment, then, rising, speaks on with 
enthusiastic energy. 

Oh, what a star of the first magnitude 

Were poor young Fazio, if his skill should work 

The wond'rous secret your deep-closeted sages 

Grow gray in dreaming of! Why, all our Florence 

Would be too narrow for his branching glories ; 

It would o'crleap the Alps, and all the north 

Troop here to see the great philosopher. 

He Avould be wealthy, too — wealthy in fame ; 

And that 's more golden than the richest gold. 

\A groan without. 
Holy St. Francis ! what a groan was there ! 

Bar. (Without) Within there ! — Oh, within there, 
neighbor ! Death ! 
Murder, and merciless robbery ! 

Fazio opens the door — Enter Bartolo. 



ILL-GOTTEN GOLD. 75 

Faz. What! Bartolo! 

Bar. Thank ye, my friend ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! my old 
limbs ! 
I did not think them half so tough and sinewy. 
St. Dominic ! but their pins pricked close and keen. 
Six of 'em, strong and sturdj^, Avith their daggers, 
Tickling the old man to let loose his ducats? 
Faz. Who, neighbor, who? 
Bar. Eobbers — black crape-faced robbers, 
Your only blood-suckers, that drain your veins, 
And yet their meager bodies aye groAv sparer. 
They knew that I had moneys from the Duke, 
But I o'erreached them, neighbor ; not a ducat, 
Na}-, not a doit, to cross themselves withal. 

Got they from old Bartolo. Oh, I bleed ! 

And my old heart beats minutes like a clock. 
Faz. A surgeon, friend! 
Bar. Ay, one of your kind butchers. 
Who cut and slash your flesh for their own pastime, 
And then, God bless the mark! they must have 

mone}^ ! 
Gold, gold, or nothing ! Silver is grown coarse. 
And rings unhandsomely. Have I 'scaped robbing, 

Only to give? Oh, there! there! there! Cold^ 

cold, 
Cold as December. 
Faz. Nay, then, a confessor ! 

Bar. A confessor ! one of your black smooth talk- 
ers, 
Thnt drone the name of God incessantly, 
Like the drear burden of a doleful ballad ! 



76 ILL-GOTTEN GOLD. 

That sing to one of bounteous codicils 

To the Franciscans or some hosjiital ! 

Oh ! there 's a sliooting ! — Oozing here ! — Ah, me, 

M}^ ducats and my ingots scarcely cold 

Prom the hot Indies ! Oh ! and I forgot 

To seal those jewels from the Milan Duke ! 

Oh ! miser}', miser}^ ! — Just this very day, 

And that mad spendthrift Angelo hath not signed 

The mortgage on those meadows b}' the Arno. 

Oh ! miser}', misery ! — Yet 1 'scaped them bravely, 

And brought my ducats off! — [Dies. 

Faz. Why, e'en lie there, as foul a mass of earth 
As ever loaded it. 'T were sin to charity 
To wring one drop of brine upon th}^ corpse. 
In sooth, death 's not nice-stomached, to be crammed 
With such unsavory offal. What a god 
'Mong men might this dead, withered thing have 

been. 
That now must rot beneath the earth, as once 
He rotted on it! Why, his wealth had won 
In better hands an atmosphere around him, 
Musical ever with the voice of blessing, — 
Nations around his tomb, like marble mourners, 
Vied for their pedestals. — In better hands? 
Methinks these fingers are nor coarse nor clumsy. 
Philosophy! Philosoph}'! thou 'rt lame 
And tortoised-paced to my fleet desires ! 
I scent a shorter path to fame and riches. 
The Hesperian trees nod their rich clusters at me, 
Tickling my timorous and withdrawing grasj") ; — 
I would, yet dare not; — that's a coward's reckoning. 



ILL-GOTTEN OOLD. 77 

Half of the sin lies in "I would." To-morrow, 
If that it find me j^oor, will write me fool, 
And myself be a mock unto mj-self 
Ay, and the body murdered in m}- house! 
Your carrion breeds most strange and loathsome in- 
sects — 

Suspicion 's of the quickest and tlie keenest 

So, neighbor, by your leave, your keys ! In sooth 
Thou hadst no desperate love for holy churcli ; 
Long-knolled bell were no sweet music to thee. 
A " God be with thee '' shall be all thy mass ; 
Thou never lovcd'st those dry and droning priests. 
Thou 'It rot most cool and quiet in my garden ; 
Your gay and gilded vault would be too costly. 

\_Exit, icith body of Bartolo. 

Scene II: — A Street. 

Enter Fazio icith a dark lantern, r. 

Faz. I, wont to rove like a tame household doo-, 
Caressed by every liand, and fearing none, 
Now prowl e'en like a gra}^ and treasonous wolf 
'T is a bad deed to rob, and I '11 have none on 't : 
'T is a bad deed to rob — and whom? the dead? 
Ay, of their winding-sheets and coffin nails. 
'T is but a quit-rent for the land I sold him. 
Almost two yards to house him and his worms j 
Somewhat usurious in the main, but that 
Is honest thrift to your keen usurer. 
Had he a kinsman, nay, a friend, 'twere devilish. 
But now whom rob I? why, the state. — In sooth, 



78 ILL-GOTTEN GOLD. 

Marvelous little owe I this same state, 

That I should be so dainty of its welfare. 

Mcthinks our Duke hath pomp enough ; our Senate 

Sit in their scarlet robes and ermine tippets, 

And live in pi'oud and pillared palaces, 

Where their Greek wines flow plentiful. — Besides, 

To scatter it abroad amid so man}-, 

It were to cut the sun out into spangles, 

And mar its brilliance by disj^ersing it. 

Away ! away ! his burying is my Eubicon ! 

Ctesar or nothing! Now, ye close-locked treasures, 

Put on your gaudiest hues, outshine 3'ourselves! 

With a deliverer's, not a tj^rant's hand, 

invade I thus your dull and ])eaceful slumbers, 

And give 3'ou light and libert3\ Ye shall not 

Molder and rust in pale and pitiful darkness. 

But front the sun with light bright as his own. 

\_I!xit, L. 

Scene III : — Fazio's House. 

Erder Fazio, icith a sack, r. : he I'ests if. 

Faz. My steps were ever to this door, as though 
They trod on beds of perfume and of doAvn. 
The winged birds were not b}' half so light, 
When through the lazy twilight air they wheel 
Home to their brooding mates. But now, methinks, 
The heavy earth doth cling around my feet. 
I move as every separate limb were gyved 
With its particular weight of manacle. 
The moonliirht that was wont to seem so soft, 



ILL-GOTTEN GOLD. 79 

So balm}^ to the slow respired breath, 

Icily, shiveringly cold falls on me. 

The marble pillars, that soared statclj^ up. 

As though to prop the azure vault of heaven. 

Hang o'er me with a dull and dizzy weight. 

The stones whereon I tread do grimly sjieak, 

Forbidding echoes, ay, with human voices : 

Unbodied arms pluck at me as I pass, 

And socketless pale eyes look glaring on me. 

But I have passed them : and methinks this weight 

Might strain more sturdy sinews than mine own. 

Howbeit, thank God, 't is safe ! — Thank God ! — for 

what ? 
That a poor honest man 's grown a rich villain. 

[^Bows his head upon his hands icith remorse^ while the 
curtain descends to music expressive of his emotion. 

COSTUMES. 

Fazio. — Brown doublet and trunks, trimmed and puffed, with 
black hat and stockings to match; brown Spanish cloak. 

Bartolo. — Dark-colored doublet and trunks; dark breeches, 
and hat. 

RE.MARKS. 

This play, though of a somber cast, will be found quite effective 
in representation. The action is extremely simple, and the long 
soliloquies afford excellent practice in sustained dramatic read- 
ing. The piece also gives opportunity for simulating the passions 
of avarice, terror, ambition, scorn, and remorse. 



80 



THE THREE CASKETS. 




THE THEEE CASKETS; OE, BASSANIO'S 
CHOICE. 



From Shakespeare^ s Merchant of Venice. 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 

Bassanio, a Venetian gentleman. 
Gratiano, his friend. 
Prince of Morocco 



suitors to Portia. 



CO, 1 

Prince of Arragon, / 
Portia, a rich heiress of Belmont 
Nerissa, her waiting-maid. 
Attendants of Portia. 



Scene I : — Belmont. A room in Portia's house. 
At hack of stage and hidden by a curtain, a table, 
upon ichich arc three caskets, one of gold, one of 
silver, one of lead. Enter Portia and Nerissa. 



THE THREE CASKETS. 81 

For. (c.) By 1113^ troth, Ncrissa, my little body is 
aweary of this great world. 

Ner. (r. c.) You would be, sweet madam, if your 
miseries Avere in the same abundance as 3'our good 
fortunes are. And yet, for aught I see, they are as 
sick that surfeit with too much, as they that starve 
with nothing. It is no small happiness, therefore, to 
be seated in the mean : superfluit}' comes sooner by 
white hairs, but competency lives longer. 

For. Good sentences, and Avell pronounced. 

Ner. The}- would be better, if well followed. 

Por. If to do were as easy as to know what were 
good to do, chapels had been churches, and ])oor 
men's cottages princes' palaces. It is a good divine 
that follows his own instructions. I can easier teach 
twenty what were good to be done, than be one of 
the twenty to folloAV mine own teaching. The brain 
may devise laws for the blood ; but a hot temper 
leaps o'er a cold decree. Such a hare is madness, 
the youth, to skip o'er the meshes of good counsel, 
the cripple. But this reasoning is not in the fashion 
to choose me a husband. — O me! the word choose! 
I may neither choose whom I would, nor refuse 
whom I dislike : so is the will of a living daughter 
curbed b}" the will of a dead father. Is it not hard, 
Nerissa, that I can not choose one nor refuse none? 

\_Cr asses., r. 

Ner. Your father Avas ever virtuous ; and holy 
men, at their death, have good inspirations: there- 
fore the lotteiy that he hath devised in these three 
chests of gold, silver, and lead, (whereof who chooses 



82 THE THREE CASKETS. 

his meaning, chooses you,) will, no doubt, never be 
chosen by any rightly but one who you shall rightly 
love. But what warmth is there in your affection 
toward any of these princely suitors that are already 
come? 

For. I pray thee, overname them ; and as thou 
namest them, I will describe them ; and according 
to my description, level at my affection. 

Ner. First, is there the Neapolitan prince. 

For. A}', that's a colt indeed, for he doth nothing 
but talk of his horse ; and he makes it a great ap- 
propriation to his own good parts, that he can shoe 
him himself. 

Ner. (c.) Then is there the County Palatine. 

For. (R.) He doth nothing but frown, as who 
should say, ' An you will not have me, choose.' 
He hears merr}^ tales and smiles not. I fear he will 
prove the weeping philosopher when he grows old, 
being so full of unmannerly sadness in his youth. 
I had rather be married to a death's-head with a 
bone in his mouth, than to either of these. Heaven 
defend me from these two. 

Ner. How say you by the French lord. Monsieur 
Le Bon? 

For. God made him, and therefore let him pass 
for a man. In truth, I know it is a sin to be a 
mocker ; but he ! — why, he hath a horse better 
than the Neapolitan's; a better bad habit of frown- 
ing than the Count Palatine; he is every man in 
no man. If a throstle sing, he falls straight a-caper- 
ing; he will fence with his own shadow. If I should 



THE THREE CASKETS. 83 

many him, I should many twenty husbands. If he 
would despise me, I would forgive him ; for if he 
love me to madness, I shall never requite him. 

Ner. What say you, then, to Falconbridge, the 
young baron of England ? 

For. You know I say nothing to him, for he 
understands not me, nor I him. He hath neither 
Latin, French, nor Italian ; and you will come into 
the court and swear that I have a poor penny- 
worth in the English. He is a proper man's pic- 
ture ; but, alas ! who can converse with a dumb- 
show? How oddly he is suited ! I think he bought 
his doublet in Italj', his round hose in France, his 
bonnet in Germany, and his behavior every-where. 

Ner. What think you of the Scottish lord, his 
neighbor ? 

For. That he hath a neighborly charit}* in him; 
for he borrowed a box of the ear of the Englishman, 
and swore he would pay him again when he was 
able. I think the Frejichman became his surety 
and sealed under for another. 

Ner. How like you the young German, the Duke 
of Saxonj^'s nejihew? 

For. Very vilely in the morning, when he is 
sober, and most vilely in the afternoon, when 
he is drunk. When he is best, he is a little worse 
than a man ; and when he is worst, he is little 
better than a beast. An the w^orst fall that ever 
fell, I hope I shall make shift to go without him. 

[^Crosses, r. 

Ner. If he should offer to choose, and choose the 



84 THE THREE CASKEffS. 

right casket, you should refuse to perform 3-our 
father's will, if you should refuse to accept him. 

Po7\ Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee, 
set a deep glass of lihenish wine on the contrary 
casket ; for if the devil be within, and that tempta- 
tion without, I know he will choose it. I will do 
any thing, Nerissa, ere I will be married to a 
sponge. 

Ner. You need not fear, lady, the having any 
of these lords ; the}' have acquainted me with their 
determinations, which is, indeed, to return to their 
home, and to trouble you with no more suit, unless 
you may be won by some other sort than your 
father's imposition depending on the caskets. 

For. If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will die as 
chaste as Diana, unless I be obtained by the manner 
of my father's will. I am glad this parcel of wooers 
are so reasonable, for there is not one among them 
but I dote on his very absence ; and I wish them a 
fair departure. 

Ner. Do you not remember, lady, in your flithcr's 
time, a Venetian, a scholar and a soldier, that 
canie hither in company of the Marquis of Mont- 
ferrat? 

For. Yes, 3'es ; it was Bassanio ; as I think, so 
was he called. 

Ner. True, madam : he, of all the men that ever 
my foolish ej^cs looked upon. Avas the best deserving 
a fair lady. 

For. I remember him well, and I remember him 
worthy of thy praise. 



THE THREE CASKETS. 85 

Enter a Serving-man. 

How now? what news? \_Crosses to l. 

Serv. The four strangers seek you, madam, to 
take their leave ; and there is a forerunner eome 
from a fifth, the Prince of Morocco, who brings 
word the Prince, his master, will be here to-night. 

Por. If I could bid the fifth welcome Avith so good 
heart as I can bid the other four farewell, I should 
be glad of his approach. Come, Nerissa — sirrah, go 
before. Whilst we shut the gate upon one Avooer, 
another knocks at the door. \Exeunt. 

Scene Jl:—The same. Flovrish of cornets. Enter 
the Prince of Morocco and his train; Portia, 
Nerissa, and others attending. 

Morocco. Mislike me not for ra}' complexion. 
The shadowed livery of the burnished sun. 
To whom I am a neighbor and near bred. 

Por. In terms of choice 1 am not solely led 
By nice direction of a maiden's eye; 
Besides, the lottery of my destiny 
Bars me the right of voluntary choosing : 
But if my father had not scanted me. 
And hedged me by his wit, to yield myself 
His wife who wins me by that means I told you, 
Yourself, renowned prince, then stood as fair 
As any comer I have looked on yet. 
For my affection. 

Mor. Even for that I thank you : 



86 THE THREE CASKETS. 

Therefore, I pray you, lead me to the caskets, 
To try my fortune. By this scimetar, 
That slew the Sophy and a Persian prince, 
That won three fields of Sultan Solyman, 
I would o'er-stare the sternest eyes that look, 
Outbrave the heart most daring on the earth, 
Pluck the young sucking cubs from the she-bear, 
Yea, mock the lion when he roars for prey, 
To win thee, lady, 

Por. You must take your chance; 

And either not attempt to choose at all. 
Or swear, before 3'ou choose, if jon choose wrong, 
Never to speak to lady afterward 
In way of marriage ; therefore be advised. 

3Ior. !Nor will not. Come, bring me unto my 
chance. 

Por. Go draw aside the curtains, and discover 
The several caskets to this noble Prince. 
Now make your choice. [An attendant obei/s. 

Mor. The first, of gold, who this inscription bears : 
WIw chooseth me, shall gain what many men desire. 
The second, silver, which this promise carries: — 
Who chooseth me, shall get as much as he deserves. 
This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt : — 
Who chooseth me, must give and hazard, all he hath. 
How shall I know if I do choose the right? 

Por. The one of them contains my picture, Prince : 
If you choose that, then I am yours withal. 

Mor. Some god direct my judgment ! Let me see ; 
I will survey the inscrii^tions back again: 
What says this leaden casket? 



THE THREE CASKETS. 87 

TTVio chooscth me, must give and hazard all he hath. 
Must give — for what ? For lead ? hazard for lead ? 
A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross ; 
I '11 then nor give nor hazard aught for lead. 
What says the silver, with her virgin hue? 
Who chooseth me, shall get as much as he deserves. 
As much as he deserves ? — Pause there, Morocco, 
And weigh thj^ value with an even hand. 
As much as I deserve ? Why, that 's the lady : 
Let 's see once more this saying graved in gold : 
Who chooseth me, shall gain ichat many men desii'e. 
Why, that's the lady; all the world desires her: 
From the four corners of the earth they come, 
To kiss this shrine, this mortal breathing saint. 

Deliver me the key : 
Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may ! 

For. There, take it, Pinnce; and if my form lie 
there. 
Then I am yours. [He unlocks the golden casket. 

^^for. What have we here ! 

A carrion death, within whose empty eye 
There is a written scroll. I'll read the Avriting: 
All that glitters is not gold ; 
Often have you heard that told: 
Many a man his life hath sold, 
But my outside to behold : 
Gilded tombs do ivorms infold. 
Had you been as wise as bold. 
Young in limbs, in judgment old. 
Your answer had not been inscrolled : 
Fare you n-ell ; your suit is cold. 



88 THE THREE CASKETS. 

Cold, indeed; and labor lost: 
Then, farewell, heat, and welcome, frost! 
Portia, adieu ! I have too grieved a heart 
To take a tedious leave. Thus losers part. 

l_Exit icith his train. 

For. A gentle riddance. — Draw the curtains; go. 

Let all of his complexion choose me so. \_Exeunt. 



Scene III: — The smne. Enter Nerissa 7cith a 
Servitor. 

Ner. Quick, quick, I pray thee ; draw the curtain 
straight : 
The Prince of Arragon hath ta'en his oath, 
And comes to his election presentl}^. 
[FlourisJi of cornets. Enter the Prince of Arragon, 
Portia, and their trains. 

For. Behold, there stand the caskets, noble Prince : 
If you choose that wherein I am contained. 
Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemnized : 
But if 3'0ii fail, without more speech, my lord, 
You must be gone from hence immediatel}'. 

Arragon. I am enjoined by oath to observe three 
things : 
First, never to unfold to an}^ one 
Which casket 'twas I chose ; next, if I fail 
Of the right casket, never in m}' life 
To woo a maid in way of marriage ; 
Lastly, if I do foil in fi>i-tune of my choice, 
Imniediatel}^ to leave you and be gone. 



THE THREE CASKETS. 89 

Par. To tlicse injunctions every one doth sweai* 
That comes to liazard for my worthless self. 

Arr. And so have I addressed me. Fortune, now, 
To my heart's hope ! Gold, silver, and base lead. 
Who chooseth me, must give and hazard all he hath: 
You shall look fairer, e'er I give or hazai'd. 
What. saj's the golden chest? Ila ! let me see : 
IVho chooseth me, shall gain what many men desire. 
I will not choose what many men desire; 
Because I will not jump with common spirits, 
And rank me Avith the barbarous multitudes. 
Wh}', then to thee, thou silver treasure-house ; 
Tell me, once more, what title thou dost bear : 
Who chooseth me, shall get as much as he deserves: 
I will assume desert. — Give me a key for this, 
And instantly unlock my fortunes here. 

[ZTc opens the silver casket. 

For. Too long a pause for that which you find 
there. 

Arr. What 's here ? the portrait of a blinking idiot, 
Presenting mo a schedule. I Avill read it. 
HoAv much unlike art thou to Portia! 
How miich unlike my hopes and my deservings! 
JVJio chooseth me, shall have as much as he deserves. 
Did I deserve no more than a fool's head? 
Is that mj' prize? Are ni}' deserts no better? 

Por. To offend and judge are distinct offices, 
And of opposed natures. 

Arr. What is hei*e? 

The fire seven times tried this : 
Seven times tried that judgment is, 
D. s.— 8. 



90 THE THREE CASKETS. 

That did never choose amiss. 

Some there be that shadows Jdss ; 

Such have but a shadow's bliss. 

There be fools alive, I wis, 

Silvered o'er ; and so teas this. 

Take what ivife you will to bed, . 

J will ever be your head : 

So be gone : you are sjjed. 

Still more fool I shall appear, 

By the time I linger here : 

With one fool's head I came to woo, 

But I go away with two. 

Sweet, adieu! I'll keep my oath, 

Patiently to bear my wroth. 

[^Exeunt Arragon and train. 

For. Thus hath the candle singed the moth. 
O these deliberate fools ! when the}" do choose. 
They have the Avisdom by their wit to lose. 

Ner. The ancient saying is no heresy, — 
Hanging and wiving goes by destinj'. 

Por. Come, draw the curtain, Nerissa. 

Enter a Servant. 

Serv. Where is m}" lady? 

Por. Here : what would my lord ? 

Serv. Madam, there is alighted at 3'our gate 
A 3*oung Venetian, one that comes before 
To signify the approaching of his lord, 
From whom he bringeth sensible regreets; 
To wit, (besides commends and courteous breath,) 



THE THREE CASKETS. 91 

Gifts of rich value. Yet I have not seen 
So likely an ambassador of love : 
A day in April never came so sweet, 
To show how costly Summer Avas at hand, 
As this forespurrer comes before his lord. 

For. No more, I pray thee : I am half afeard 
Thou wilt say anon ho is some kin to thee, 
Thou spend'st such high-daj- wit in praising him. 
Come, come, Nerissa ; for I long to see 
Quick Cupid's post, that comes so mannerly. 

Ncr. Bassanio, lord Love, if thy will be. 

[^Exeunt. 

Scene IV : — The same. Enter Bassanio, Portia, 
Gratiano, Nerissa, and Attendants. 

For. I pray j'ou, tarry ; pause a day or two 
Before you hazard : foi', in choosing wrong, 
I lose 3'our company : therefore forbear awhile. 
There 's something tells me, but it is not love, 
1 would not lose you : and 3'ou know yourself, 
Hate counsels not in such a quality. 
But lest 3-0U should not understand mo well. — 
And 3'et a maiden hath no tongue but thought, — 
I would detain you here some month or two. 
Before j^ou venture for me : I could teach 5-ou 
How to choose right, but then I am forsworn ; 
So Avill I never be : so may you miss me; 
But if you do, you'll make me wish a sin, — 
That I had been forsworn. 

Bassanio. I./et me choose; 

For as I am. T live upon the rack. 



92 THE THREE CASKETS. 

For. Upon the rack, Bassanio ! then confess 
What treason there is mingled with 3^our love. 

Bass. None but that ugly treason of mistrust, 
Which makes me fear the enjoj'ing of my love 
There may as well be amity and life 
'Tween snow and fire, as treason and my love. 

For. Ay, but I fear you speak upon the rack ; 
And men, enforced, do speak an}- thing. 

Bass. Promise me life, and I '11 confess the truth. 

For. Well, then, confess and live. 

Bass. Confess and love 

Had been the very sum of my confession. 
O happy torment, when my torturer 
Doth teach me answers for deliverance! 
But let me to my fortune and the caskets. 

For. Away, then ! I am locked in one of them : 
If 3'ou do love me, you will find me out. 
Nerissa, and the rest, stand all aloof 
Let music sound while he doth make his choice ; 
Then, if he lose, he makes a swan-like end, 
Fading in music: that the comparison 
May stand more proper, m}' eye shall be the stream 
And watery death-bed for him. lie ma}' win. 
And what is music then ? Then music is 
Even as the flourish when true subjects bow 
To a ncAV-crowned monarch : such it is 
As are those dulcet sounds in break of day ; 
That creep into the dreaming bridegroom's ear, 
And summon hiin to marriage. \_Soft music. 

Bass. So may the outward shows be least tliem- 
selves : 



THE THREE CASKETS. 93 

The world is still deceived with ornament. 

In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt 

But, being seasoned with a gracious voice, 

Obscures the show of evil? In religion, 

AVhat deadly error, but some sober brow 

Will bless it, and approve it with a text. 

Hiding the grossness with fair ornament? 

There is no vice so simple but assumes 

Some mark of virtue on his outward parts: 

How man}' cowards, whose hearts are all as false 

As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins 

The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars ; 

Who, inward searched, have livers white as millc; 

And these assume but valor's excrement, 

To render them redoubted ! Look on bctiut}^ 

And you shall see 'tis purchased by the weight, 

Which therein works a miracle in nature. 

Making them lightest that wear most of it: 

So arc those crisped, snaky, golden locks, 

W^hich make such wanton gambols in the wind. 

Upon supposed fairness, often known 

To be the dowrj' of a second head ; 

The skull that bred them, in the sepulcher. 

Thus ornament is but the gulled shoi^e 

To a most dangerous sea; the beauteous scarf 

Veiling an Indian beaut}' ; — in a word. 

The seeming truth which cunning times put on 

To entrap the wisest. Therefore, thou gaudy gold. 

Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee; 

Nor none of thee, thou pale and common drudge 

'Tween man and man : but thou, thou meager lead, 



94 THE THREE CASKETS. 

Which ratlicr threaL'nest than dost promise auglit, 
Tliy phiiiiness moves me more than eloquence ; 
And here choose I. Joy be the consequence ! 

Por. [^Aside'\ How all the other passions fleet to air, 
As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embraced despair, 
And shuddering fear, and green-eyed jealousy. 

love ! be moderate ; allay thy ecstasy ; 
Jn measui-e rain thy joy : scant this excess : 

1 feel too much thy blessing; make it less, 
For fear I surfeit. 

Bass. AVhat find I here? 

\_Openin(j the leaden casket. 
Fair Portia's counterfeit! AVhat demi-god 
Hath come so near creation? Move, these cj-cs? 
Or whether, riding on the balls of mine. 
Seem they in motion? Here are severed lijis, 
I'arted with sugar breath : so sweet a bar 
Should sunder such sweet friends. Herein her hairs 
Tlie painter plays the spider, aiul hath woven 
A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men, 
Faster than gnats in cobwebs: but her ej'es ! 
How could he see to do them? having made one, 
Methinks it should have power to steal both his, 
And leave itself unfurnished. Yet look, how far 
The substance of my praise doth wrong this shadow 
In underprizing it, so far this shadow 
Doth limp behind the substance. — Here's the scroll, 
The continent and summary of my fortune. 
You that choose not by the view, 
Chance as fair, and choose as true: 
Since this fortune falls to you. 



THE THREE CASKETS. 95 

Be content, and seek no new : 
If you be icell pleased with this, 
And hold your fortune for your bliss. 
Turn you where your lady is. 
And claim her with a loving kiss. 
A gentle scroll. — Fair lady, by your leave ; 
I come b}' note to give and to receive. [^Kissing her. 
Like one of two contending in a prize, 
That thinks he hath done well in people's e^-es, 
Hearing apphiuse and universal shout, 
Gidd}^ in spirit, still gazing in a doubt 
Wiiether those peals of praise be his or no ; 
80, thrice fair lady, stand I even so, 
As doubtful whether what I see be true, 
TT]itil confirmed, signed, ratified by 3'ou. 

Por. You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand, 
Such as I am : though for myself alone 
1 would not be ambitious in my wish. 
To wish myself mucii better; yet, for j'ou 
I would bo trebled twenty times myself, 
A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times more 

rich ; 
That onl}' to stand high in your account, 
I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends, 
Exceed account : but the full* sum of me 
Is sum of nothing: which, to term in gross. 
Is an unlessoned girl, unschooled, unpracticed : 
Happy in this, she is not yet so old 
But she may learn; happier than this, 
She is not bred so dull but she can learn ; 
Happiest of all is that her gentle s])irit 



96 THE TIIUEE CASKETS. 

Commits itself to yours to bo directed, 
As fi'om her lord, her governor, her king. 
Myself and what is mine to you and yours 
Is now converted : but now I was the lord 
Of tiiis fair mansion, master of my servants, 
Queen o'er myself; and even now, but now, 
This house, these servants, and this same m3'self 
Are yours, my lord. I give them Avith this ring, 
Which, when jon part from, lose, or give awa}', 
Let it presage tiie ruin of j'our love, 
And be my vantage to exclaim on you. 

Bass. Madam, j'ou have bereft mc of all words; 
Only ni}' blood speaks to you in my veins: 
And there is such confusion in my powers 
As, after some oration fairly spoke 
By a beloved ]n'ince, there doth appear 
Among the buzzing, ])leased multitude; 
Where ever}' something, being blent together. 
Turns to a wild of nothing, save of joy, 
P^x])ressed and not expressed. But Avhen this ring 
Parts from this finger, then parts life from hence : 

then be bold to say, Bassanio's dead ! 

JVer. My loi-d and lad}', it is now our time, 
That have stood by and seen our wishes prosper, 
To cry, good joy. Good joy, my lord and lady ! 

Gratiano. My Lord Bassanio, and my gentle lady, 

1 wish you all the joy that you can wish ; 
For I am sure you can wish none from mc: 
And when your honors mean to solemnize 
The bargain of your faith, I do beseech you. 
Even at that time I may be married too. 



THE THREE CASKETS. 97 

Bass. With all mj^ heart, so thou canst get a "vvife. 

Grat. I thank your lordship, you have got me one. 
My eyes, my lord, can look as swift as yours : 
You saw the mistress, I belield the maid ; 
You loved, I loved ; for intermission 
No more pei'tains to me. my lord, than you. 
Your fortune stood upon the caskets there, 
And so did mine, too, as the matter falls; 
For wooing here until I sweat again, 
And swearing till my very roof was dry, 
With oaths of love, at last, if promise last, 
I got a promise of this fair one hero 
To have her love, provided that your fortune 
Achieved her mistress. 

Po7'. Is this true, Nerissa? 

Ner. Madam, it is, so you stand pleased withal. 

Bass. And do you, Gratiano, mean good faith? 

Graf. Yes, faith, my loi-d. 

Bass. Our feast shall be much honored in your 
marriage. 

Tableau. Curtain. 



COSTUMES. 

Bassanio. — While tunic, trimmed with silver; blue satin waist- 
coat, cmbroidei-ed, and blue sash-belt; white silk stocking 
pantaloons; white shoos, with rosettes. 

Gratiano. — Green velvet coat; white waistcoat ; worsted pan- 
taloons, and russet boots. 

PoHTiA. — SaUnon-coloved gown, trimmed with silver. 

Nekiss.\. — AVhite dress spangled, with coloi'ed body. 
D. S.-9. 



98 THE THREE CASKETS. 

Prince of Morocco. — Long crimson tunic, girt around the waist 
by a rich sash; over the tunic, a long flowing robe, or gab- 
ardine, of a dark green color, reaching almost or quite to 
the feet; wide flowing sleeves; high turban of crimson and 
gold, ornamented with gems; scimetar, worn suspended from 
a narrow scarf or band hung over the right shoulder. 

Pri.nce of Arragon. — Slashed doublet; hose; hat with feather; 
sword. The costume should be of very rich material. 



THE POSITIVE MAN. 99 



THE POSITIVE MAN. 



From The Positive Man, hy John 0^ Keefe. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Sir Toby Tacit. Lady Tacit. 

Rupee. Cornelia. 

Servant. 



vScENE : — Sir Toby Tacit's House. Enter Sir Toby 
and Lady Tacit. 

Sir Toby. You know, my Ladj^ Tacit, I am not to 
be controlled ; I Avill have ray way. 

Lady T. Will ! And have, my sweet Sir Toby. 
Do I ever presume to have a will of my own ? But 
indeed, my dear love, you are a little too positive. 

Sir T. I am, I am a positive man, I own it ; and 
I will insist, and persist, too, that this new house 
I 've taken in Portland Place is charmingly situ- 
ated. I challenge England to afford such a delightful 
pi'ospect. 

Lady T. Sir Toby, pardon me ; do you really 
think the view of Highgate and Hampstead so very 
beautiful ? 



100 THE POSITIVE MAN. 

Sir T. Me ! not I. Visto, the landscape painter, 
commends it, indeed ; but he knows no more of a 
prospect than a hedgehog. The house, though, has 
a lofty hall ; it strikes you with an air of grandeur. 

Lady T. The hall lofty, Sir Toby ! Pardon me, 
my dear, but I protest it did n't seem so to me. 

Sir T. Nor to me, my Lady. I thought, indeed, 
it seemed tolerably high, till t'other day, trying to 
cut one of Vestris' capers, I hit my head against the 
lantern. — But the gi-eat parlor, my Lady ; I '11 lay 
any man an hundred guineas that parlor dines forty. 

Lady T. Na}", Sir Toby, when once you form an 
opinion, you will persist in it; you are exceedingly 
obstinate. 

Sir T. True, Lady Tacit ; when once I 'm deter- 
mined, I 'm not to be moved by the rhetoric of Oxford, 
Cambridge, Sorbonne, or Salamanca. 

Enter Servant. 

Serii. Mr. Eupee, sir. [Exit. 

Sir T. My new East India son-in-law. Here, my 
Lady Tacit, pull up my cravat and pull down my 
ruffles. 

Lady T. Sir Toby ! ask me such a thing ! 

Sir T. Then, my Lady, I will pull down my 
ruffles and pull up my cravat ; I am determined. 

Enter Eupee. 

Rupee. My Lad}^ Tacit, your ladyship's slave. I 
have — Apropos., Sir Toby, your most obedient. 



THE POSITIVE MAN. 101 

Lady T. Sir, we are exceedingly pi-oud of this 
lion or. 

Sir T. Sir, we are exceedingly proud. 

Lady T. Sir Toby ! 

Sir T. Proud ! I mean, sir, Ave are j^our humble — 

Bnpee. I hope, madam, my lovely Cornelia is 
well ? 

Sir T. She is exceedingly well, indeed, sir. 

Lady T. What are you at, my sweet? 

Sir T. Only at present she has got a most dan- 
gerous cold. 

Lady T. Cornelia ! a cold ! 

Sir T. But now she 's perfectly recovered ; and 
ni}' daughter will be so happy when she hears — 

Lady T. Your daughter ! Sir Toby ! 

Sir T. Mine? I'm an obstinate man, but in this 
particular I will not be positive. 

Lady T. Mr. Rupee, dear sir, I shall beg but for 
a few moments, though, to deprive mj^self of the 
egregious felicity of j-our very agreeable compan3\ 

Sir T. Egregious felicity ! Mr. Eupee, what a 
line spoken woman ! 

Rv.pee. Yer3^, Sir Toby ; but that phrase of egre- 
gious felicity is — 
° Sir T. Nonsense. 

Rupee. Nonsense! Apropos, did you ever hear 
me speak in Leadenhall street upon Indian affairs? 

Sir T. Poor Lady Tacit ! all obedience — -humble 
as a forsaken sultana. But, sir, in this house I am 
Turk and tyrant. Sir, I am a very Bajazet. Not 



102 THE POSITIVE MAN. 

iTi}^ fault, though, Mr. Kupee ; I was formed with a 
hard heart. As Othello says, " I strike it, and it hurts 
my hand." Now, sir, as to my wife — she 's a lady, 
thanks to my knighthood, but the most silly, igno- 
rant, ridiculous — 

\_Re-e7iter Lady Tacit and Cornelia. 
Hem! — sensible, elegant, and finest spoken woman 
in England. Ah, my Lady Tacit, we were just talk- 
ing of you. 

Lady T. Coxmelia, child, receive Mr. Eupee as a 
gentleman who is shortly to be your husband. 

Rupee. Oh, my charming Cornelia ! [^su/e] Now 
if I can but recollect my oriental compliment; it has 
pleased both black, brown, and yellow : now I'll try 
it on the fair. Cornelia, speak, lu}- love ; the melody 
of your voice is sweeter than the sound of a Nankin 
bell; your breath is cinnamon of Ceylon, diffusing 
fragrance through teeth of the sagacious elephant, 
and coral of the Ormus. Permit me, madam, to 
touch this fair hand, soft as weft of the Indostan 
worm. Your ej^es, arched with camels' hair, brilliant 
as the diamond of Golconda; and the porcelain tower 
of Pckin is but a ftiint emblem of the excellent sym- 
metrj^ of your beautiful tout ensemble. 

Sir T. Oh, charming! elegant! Cornelia, speak 
and make a handsome curtsey. 

Cor. I confess, sir, I am incapable of answering 
so lavish and polite a compliment. 

Sir T. What a delightful curtsey she makes! eh, 
Mr. Eupee ? 

Lady T. O fie. Sir Toby ! 



THK POSITIVE MAN. 103 



Sir T True, my Lady; — so, so, Corney; you 
are a good girl, but confound your dancing-master. 
Well, Mr. Rupee, what say you to a bottle ? 

Lady T What ! do you mean to bottle a gentle- 
man at this time of day ? Richard! [^n^.r Servant] 

Get tea. ^ ^,11 

SirT. Look ye, my Lady Tacit, I am the lord 
and master in this house; I will be positive; there- 
fore I say, Richard, get tea ! [.Exit Servant^ 
Rupee. Tea ! ^Apropos, ma'am, do you take snutt . 
Cor No, sir. [Aside'] Insignificant coxcomb ! 
Bupee True, madam ; it was formerly in style, 
quite the rage with people of ton; but now it's a 
vile bore I took snuff once in such profusion, that 
in most polite circles I was distinguished by the title 
of Count Macabah. 

Sir T When I was encamped, I took so much 
snuff that they called me Captain Strasborough 

Rupee. Strasborough !-^i?ropos, I presume from 
to-morrow I date my felicity ? 

Sir T. Yes ; you and my daughter Cornelia here 
shall be married to-morrow morning; that is, my 
Lady, if you have no objection. 

Ladii T Ah, Mr. Rupee, they talk of female pre- 
rogative ; you see how weak my influence with such 
a positive man. 

Sir T Yes, Mr. Rupee, when the gust of passion 
blows, my Lady Tacit is the gentle osier of compli- 
ance, and T am the sturdy oak of opposition^ 

Costumes. — Modern English dresses. 



104 PANGLOSS. 



PANGLOSS. 



From The Heir-at-Law, by Geo. Colman the Younger. 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 

Lord Duberly, alias Daniel Dowlas. 
Dick Dowlas. 

Dr. Pangloss, LL.D. and A. S. S. 
Lady Duberly, alias Deborah Dowlas. 
John, a Servant. 



Scene I : — An Apartment in Lord Duberly's House. 
Lord and Lady Duberly discovered at breakfast. 

Lord D. But what does it matter, niy Lady, 
whether I drink my tea out of a cup or a saucer? 

Lady D. A great deal in the polite circles, my 
Lord. We have been raised, by a strange freak of 
fortune, from nothing, as a body may say ; and — 

Lord D. Nothing! as reputable a trade as any in 
all Gosjjort. You hold a merchant as cheap as if he 
trotted about with all his property in a pack, like a 
peddler. 

Lady D. A merchant, indeed ! curious merchan- 
dise 3'ou dealt in, truly! 



PANGLOSS. 105 

Lord D. A lurge assortment of articles : coal, 
cloth, herrings, linen, candles, eggs, sugar, treacle, 
tea, bacon, and brick-dust; with many more, too 
tedious to mention in this here advertisement. 

Jjady D. Well, praise the bridge that carried you 
over ; but you must now drop the tradesman and 
learn life. Consider, by the strangest accident, you 
have been raised to neither more nor less than a peer 
of the realm. 

Lord D. Oh ! 't was the strangest accident, my 
Lady, that ever happened on the face of the uni- 
versal y earth. 

Lady D. True; 'twas, indeed, a windfall; and 
you must now walk, talk, eat and drink as becomes 
your station. 'T is befit a nobleman should behave 
as sich, and knoAV summut of breeding. 

Lord L>. Well, but I ha n't been a nobleman more 
nor a week; and my throat isn't noble enough yet 
to be proof against scalding. Hand over the milk, 
my Lady. 

Jjady D. Hand over ! Ah ! what 's bred in the 
bone will never come out of the flesh, my Lord. 

Lord D. Pshaw ! here 's a fuss, indeed ! When I 
was plain Daniel Dowlas, of Gosport, I was reckoned 
as cute a dab at discourse as any in town. Nobody 
found fault Avith me then. 

Jjady D. But why so loud ? I declare, the serv- 
ants will hear. 

Lord D. Hear ! and what will they hear but what 
they know? Our story a secret! Tell 'em Queen 
Anne 's dead, my Lady. Do n't every body know 



106 PANGLOSS. 

old Duberly was sui^posed to die without any hair 
to his estate — as the doctors say, of an implication 
of disorders? and that his son, Henry Morland, was 
lost, some lime ago, in the salt sea? 

Lady D. Well, thei'e 's no occasion to — 

Lord D. Do n't every hodj know that lawj^er 
Ferret, of Furnival's Inn, owed the legatees a 
grudge, and popped a bit of an advertisement into 
the News: — '-Whereas, the heir-at-law, if there be 
tix\y reviving, of the late Baron Dnberlj^, will apply — 
so and so — he '11 hear of summut greatly to his 
advantage." 

Jjady D. But why bawl it to the — 

I^ord. D. Did n't ho hunt me out to prove my 
title, and lug me from the counter to clap me into a 
coach, a house .here in Hanover Square, and an estate 
in the country worth fifteen thousand per annum? 
Wh}', bless 5'ou, my Lad}', every little black sweep 
with a soot-bag cries it about the streets as often as 
he says " Sweep ! " 

Jjady D. 'T is a pity but my Loi*d had left you 
some manners with his monc}-. 

Jjord D. He ! what, mj^ cousin twenty thousand 
times removed? He must have left them by word 
of month. Never spoke to him but once in all my 
born life — upon an electioneering matter. That 's 
a time when most of your proud folks make no 
bones of tii:)pling with a tallow-chandler, in his back 
room, on a melting day. But he! — except calling 
me cousin, and buj'ing a lot of damaged huckaback 
to cnt into kitchen towels, he was as cold and as 



PANGLOSS. 107 

stiff as he is noAv, thougii he has been dead and 
buried these nine months, rot him ! 

Lady D. There again, now ! rot him ! 

Lord D. WI13', what is a man to say when he 
wants to consecrate liis old, stiff-rumped relations? 

\_Rings the bell. 

Lady D. Why, an oath now and then may slip 
in, to garnish genteel conversation ; but then it 
should be done with an air to one's equals, and with 
a kind of careless condescension to menials. 

Lord D. Should it? Well, then; here, John. 

Enter John, r. 
My good man, take away the tea. 

John. Yes, my Lord. lExit, r. 

Lady D. And now, my Lord, I must leave you 
for tlic concerns of the day. We elegant people are 
as full of business as an ci^g 's full of meat. 

Lord D. Yes, we elegant people find the trade of 
the tone, as tliey call it, plaguy fatiguing. What! 
you arc for the ids a ids this morning? Much good 
ma}' it do you, my Lady. It makes me sit stuck up 
and squeezed like a bear in a bathing-tub. 

Lady D. I have a hundred places to call at. 
Folks are so civil since avc came to take possession. 
There 's dear Lady Littlefigure, Lord Sponge, Mrs. 
Holdbank, Lady Betty Pillory, the Hon. Mrs. Cheat- 
well, and — 

Lord B. Ay, ay; you may always find plenty 
in this here town to be civil to fifteen thousand a 
year, my Lady. 



108 PAN GLOSS. 

Lady D. Well, thci'e 's no learning yoii life. I 'ra 
sure they are as kind and friendly. The supper 
Lady Betty gave to us, and a hundred friends, must 
have cost her fifty good pounds, if it cost a brass 
farden ; and she does the same thing, I 'm told, three 
times a Aveek. If she is n't monstrous rich, I wonder, 
for my part, how she can afford it. 

Lord D. Why, my Lady, that would have puzzled 
me, too, if they hadn't hooked me into a game of 
cocking and punting, I think they call it, Avhere I 
lost as much in half a hour as would keep her and 
her companj^ in fricasees and whip sullibubs for a 
fortnight. But I may be even with her some o' 
these a'ternoons. Only let me catch her at Put, 
that's all! 

Enter John, l. 

John. Doctor Pangloss is below, my Lord. 

Lord I). Oddsbobs, my Lady ! That 's the man 
as learns me to talk English. 

Lady D. Hush! consider — [_Poi7iting to John. 

Lord p. Hum ! I forgot. My honest fellow, show 
him up stairs, d'ye hear? [_Lx it 3 oim, l.] There, 
was that easy ? 

Lady D. Tolerable. 

Lord D. Well, now, get along, my Lady; the 
Doctor and I must be snug. 

I^ady D. Then I bid you good morning, my Lord. 
As Lady Betty says, I wish you a bon repos. 

[Exit, R. 



PANGLOSS. 109 

Lord D. A bon repos ! I do n't know how it is, 
but the women arc more cuter at these here matters 
nor the men. My wife, as every bod}^ may see, is 
as genteel already as if she had been born a duchess. 
This Doctor Pangloss will do me a deal of good in 
the way of fashioning my discourse. So here he is. 



Enter Pangloss, l. 

Doctor, good morning. I wish you a bon repos! 
Take a chair. Doctor. 

Pang. Pardon me, ni}^ Lord ; I am not inclined 
lobe sedentary. I wish, Avith permission, '^ crectus 
ad sidera tollere vultus.''' — Ovid. Hem ! 

Lord D. Tollory vultures ! I suppose that that 
means you had rather stand? 

Pang. Fye, this is a locomotive morning with 
me. Just hurried, my Lord, from the Society of 
Arts, whence, I may say, " I have borne my blushing 
honors thick upon me." — Shakespeare. Hem ! 

Lord D. And what has put 3-our honors to the 
blush, this morning. Doctor? 

Pang. To the blush ! a ludicrous perversion of 
the author's meaning — he, he, he! Hem! You 
shall hear, m}^ Lord. " Lend me your ears." — 
Shakespeare again. Hem! 'T is not unknown to 
your lordship, and the no less literary world, that 
the Caledonian University of Aberdeen long since 
conferred upon me the dignity of LL.D. ; and, as I 
never beheld that erudite body, I may safely say 



110 PANGLOSS. 

they dubbed me with a degree from sheer con- 
siderations of my celebrity. 

Lord D. True. 

Fang. For nothing, my Lord, but mj' own innate 
modesty, could suppose that Scotch college to be 
swayed by one pound fifteen shillings and three 
pence three farthings, paid on receiving my diploma, 
as a handsome compliment to the numerous and 
learned head of that seminary. 

Lord D. Oh, no; it wasn't for the matter of 
money. 

Pang. I do not think it was altogether the " auri 
sacra fames.'' — Virgil. Hem ! But this \erj day, 
my Lord, at eleven o'clock A. M., the Society of 
Arts, in consequence, as they were pleased to say, 
of my merits — he, he, he! my merits^ my Lord — 
have admitted me as an unworthy member; and I 
have henceforward the privilege of adding to my 
name the honorable title of A double S. 

Lord D. And I make no doubt, Doctor, but you 
have richly deserved it. I warrant a man does n't 
ffet A double S tacked to his name for nothins:. 

Pang. Decidedly not, ni}- Lord. Yes, I am now 
arthim sociefatis socius. My two last publications did 
that business. ^' Exegi monumentum cere perennius." — 
Horace. Hem ! 

Lord D. And what might them there two books 
be about. Doctor? 

Pang. The first, my Lord, was a plan to lull the 
restless to sleep by an infusion of opium into their 
ears. The efficacy of this method originally struck 



PANGLOSS. Ill 

me in St. Stephen's chapel, while listening to the 
oratory of a worthy country gentleman. 

Lord D. I wonder it wa'n't hit upon before by 
the doctors. 

Pang. Physicians, m}^ Lord, jjut their patients to 
sleep in another manner — he, he, he ! " To die — to 
sleep; no more." — Shakespeare. Hem! My second 
treatise was a proposal for erecting dove-houses, on 
a principle tending to increase the projiagation of 
pigeons. This, I may affirm, has received consider- 
able countenance from many who move in the circles 
of fashion. ^^ Nee gemere cessabit turtur^ — Yirgil. 
Hem ! I am about to publish a third edition by 
subscription. May I have the honor to poj) your 
lordshij) down among the pigeons? 

Lord D. Ay, ay ; down with me, Doctor. 

Pang. My Lord, I am grateful. I ever insert 
names and titles at full length : what may be your 
lordship's sponsorial and patronymic appellations? 

\_Taking out his pocket-book. 

Lord D. My what ? 

Pang. I mean, my Lord, the designations given 
to you by your lordship's godfathers and parents. 

Lord D. Oh ! what my Christian and surname ? 
I was baptized Daniel. 

Pang. " Abolens baptismate labem." — I forget 
where ; no matter. Hem ! The Eight Honorable 
Daniel — [ Writing. 

Lord D. Dowlas. 

Pang. [Writing'] Dowlas — "Filthy Dow!" — 
Hem ! Shakespeare. — The Eight Honorable Daniel 



112 PANGLOSS. 

Dowlas, Baron Duberly. — And now, my Lord, to 
3'our lesson for the day. ^They sit. 

Lord D. Now for it, Doctor. 

Pang. The process which we are now upon is, to 
eradicate that blemish in your lordship's language 
which the learned denominate cacology., and which 
the vulgar call slip-slop. 

Lord D. I am afraid. Doctor, my cakelology will 
give you a tolerable tight job on 't. 

Pang. " Nil desperandum." — Horace. Hem ! 
We'll begin in the old way, my Lord. Talk on: 
Avhen 3'ou stumble,-! check. Where was your 
lordship yesterday evening? 

Lord D. At a consort. 

Pang. Umph ! tete a tele with Lady Duberly, I 
presume. 

Lord, D. Tete a tete with five hundred people, 
hearing of music. 

Pang. Oh ! I conceive : your lordship Avould say 
a concert. Mark the distinction : a concert, my Lord, 
is an entertainment visited by fashionable lovers of 
harmony. Now, a consort is a wife — little conducive 
to harmony in the present day, and seldom visited 
by a man of fashion, unless she happens to be his 
friend's or his neighbor's. 

Lord D. A difference, indeed! Between 5 on and 
I, Doctor, (now my Lady 's out of hearing,) a wife is 
the plague. 

Pang. He, he, he! there are plent}' of Jobs in the 
world, my Lord. 

Lord D. And a sight of Jezebels, too. Doctor. 



PANGLOSS. 113 

But patience, as you say ; for I never gives my Lady 
no bad language. Whenever she gets in her tan- 
trums, and talks high, I always sits mumchance. 

Pang. " So spake our mother Eve, and Adam 
heard." — Milton. Hem! \_They rise^ Silence is 
most secure, my Lord, in these cases; for if once 
your lordship opened your mouth, 'tis twenty to 
one but bad language would follow. 

I/07'd D. Oh, that 's a sure thing ; and I never 
liked to disperse the women. 

Pang, disperse. 

Lord D. Humph ! there 's another stumble ! After 
all. Doctor, 1 shall make but a jDOor progress in my 
vermicular tongue. 

Pang. Your knowledge of our native or ver- 
nacular language, my Lord, time and industry may 
meliorate. Yermicxdar is an epithet seldom applied 
to tongues, but in the case of puppies who want 
to be wormed. 

Lord D. Oh, then, I a'n't so much out, Doctor, 
I 've met plenty of puppies, since I came to town, 
whose tongues are so troublesome, that worming 
might chance to be of service. But, Doctor, I 've a 
bit of a proposal to make to you concerning my own 
family. 

Pang. Disclose, my Lord. 

Lord I). Why, you must know, I expect my 
son Dicky in town this here very morning. Now, 
Doctor, if you would but mend his cakelology, may- 
hap it might be better worth while than the mending 
of mine. 

1). s.— 10. 



114 PANGLOSS. 

Pang \_Aside\ I smell a pupil. Whence, my Lord, 
does the young gentleman come ? 

Lord D. You shall hear all about it. You know, 
Doctor, though I 'm of good family distraction — 

Pang. Ex. 

Lord D. Though I 'm of a good family extraction, 
't was but t' other day I kept a shop at Gosport. 

Pa7ig. The rumor has reached me. " Fama volat 
viresque.'' — 

Lord JD. Do n't put me out. 

Pang. Virgil. Hem ! Proceed. 

Lord D. A tradesman, you know, must mind the 
main chance ; so, when Dick began to grow as big 
as a porpus, I got an old friend of mine, who lives 
in Derbyshire — humph ! close to the peak — to take 
Dick 'prentice at half-price. He 's just now out of 
his time ; and I warrant him as wild and as rough 
as a rock. Now, if you. Doctor, if j^ou would but 
take him in hand, and soften him a bit — 

Pang. Pray, my Lord — " to soften rocks." — 
Congreve. Hem ! Pray, my Lord, what profession 
may the Honorable Mr. Dowlas have followed? 

Lord D. "Who? Dick? He has served his clerk- 
ship to an attorney at Castlcton. 

Pang. An attorney ! Gentlemen of his profession, 
my Lord, are very difficult to soften. 

Lord D. Yes, but the pay may make it worth 
while. I 'm told that Lord Spindle gives his eldest 
son. Master Drumstick's tutorer, three hundred a 
year-, and, besides learning his pupil, he has to read 
my lord to sleep of an afternoon, and walk out with 



PANGLOSS. 115 

the lap-dogs and children. Now, if thi*ee hundred a 
year, Doctor, will do the business for Dick, I sha'n't 
begrudge it you. 

Pang. Three hundred a year ! say no more, my 
Lord. LL.D., A. double S., and three hundred a 
3'ear ! I accept the office. " Verbum sat.'" — Horace. 
Hem ! I '11 run to my lodgings, settle with Mrs. 
Suds, put my wardrobe into a — no, I "ve got it all 
on, and — [Going. 

Lord D. Hold, hold ! not so hasty. Doctor. I 
must first send you for Dick to the Blue Boar. 

Fang. The Honorable Mr. Dowlas, my pupil, at 
the Blue Boar ! 

Lord D. Ay, in Holborn. As I a'n't fond of 
telling people good news beforehand, for fear they 
may be baulked, Dick knows nothing of my being 
made a lord. 

Pang. Three hundred a year ! 

" I've often wished that I had clear, 
For life, six " — 710, three — 
" Thi'ee hundred " — 

Lord B. I wrote him just before I left Gosport, 
to tell him to meet me in London with — 

Pang. " Three hundred pounds a year." — Swift. 
Hem ! 

Lord I). With all speed, upon business ; d' 3-e 
mind me? 

Pang. Dr. Pangloss, with an income of — no lap- 
dogs, my Lord? 

Lord F. Nay, but listen. Doctor; — and as I 



1 16 PANGLOSS. 

did n't know where old Ferret was to make me live 
in London, I told Dick to be at the Blue Boar this 
morning by the stage-coach. Why, you don't hear 
what I'm talking about. Doctor. 

Pang. Oh, perfectly, my Lord — three hundred — 
Blue Boars — in a stage-coach ! 

Lord D. Well, step into my room. Doctor, and 
I '11 give you a letter which yon shall cany to ihe 
inn, and bring Dick awaj' with you. I Avarrant the 
boy will be ready to jump out of his skin. 

Pang. Skin! jump ! I 'm ready to jump out of 
mine! I follow your lordship. — Oh, Dr. Pangloss, 
where is your philosophy now! — I attend you, my 
Lord. '^ Eq^iam memento." — Horace. Servare mentem. 
Hem! bless me, I'm all in a fluster — LL.D., A. 
double S., and three hundred a — I attend your 
lordship. 



Scene 11: — A Room in the Blue Boar Inn. Enter 
Dr. Pangloss a7id Waiter, l. 

Pang. Let the chariot turn about. Dr. Pangloss 
in a lord's chariot ! " Curra portahur eodem.'^ — Juve- 
nal. Hem ! — Waiter ! 

Wait. Sir. 

Pang. Have 3'ou any gentleman here who arrived 
this morning? 

Wait. There 's one in the house now, sir. 

Pang. Is he juvenile? 

Wait. No, sir ; he 's Derbj^shire. 



PANGLOSS. 117 

Pang. lie, he, he ! — Of what appearance is the 
gentleman ? 

Wait. W]i3% pLaguy poor, sir. 

Pang. " I hold him rich, al had he not a sherte." — 
Chaucer. Hem ! — Denominated the Honorable Mr. 
Dowlas ? 

Wait. Honorable! He left his name plain Dowlas 
at the bar, sir. 

Pang. Plain Dowlas, did he ? That will do ; " for 
all the rest is leather — " 

Wait. Leather, sir! 

Pang. " And prunello." — Pope. Hem! Tell Mr. 
Dowlas a gentleman requests the honor of an inter- 
view. 

Wait. This is his room, sir. He is but just stepped 
into our parcel warehouse ; he'll be with you directly. 

\^Exit^ R. 

Pang. Never before did honor and affluence let 
foil such a shower on the head of Dr. Pangloss ! 
Fortune, I thank thee ! propitious goddess, I am 
grateful ! J, thy favored child, who commenced 
his career in the loftiest apartment of a muffin- 
maker, in Milk Alley. Little did I think, "good, 
easy man " — Shakesjoeare — hem I — of the I'iches 
and literar}^ dignities which now — 

Enter Dick Dowlas, r. 

]\Iy pupil ! 

Dick. [Speaking irJu'le entering'] Well, where is the 
man that Avants — oh ! you are he, I suppose — 



118 PANGLOSS. 

Pang. I am the man, 3'oung gentleman. '^ Honw 
sum.'' — Terence. Hem! 8ir, the person who now 
presumes to address you is Peter Pangloss, to whose 
name, in the College of Aberdeen, is subjoined LL.D., 
signifying Doctor of Laws; to which has been re- 
cently added the distinction of A. double S., the 
Roman initials for a Fellow of the Society of Arts. 

Dick. Sir, I am your most obedient, Eichard 
Dowlas; to whose name, in his tailor's bill, is sub- 
joined DR., signifying debtor; to which are added 
L. S. D., the Roman initials for pounds, shillings, 
and pence. 

Fang. Ha ! this j^outh was doubtless designed by 
destiny to move in tlie circles of fashion ; for he is 
dip])cd in debt, and makes a merit of telling it. 

Dick. But what are your commands with me. 
Doctor ? 

Pang. I have the honor, young gentleman, of 
being deputed an ambassador to you from your 
father. 

Dick. Then 3'ou have the honor to be an ambas- 
sador of as good-natured an old fellow as ever sold 
a ha'porth of cheese in a chandler's shop. 

Pa7ig. Pardon me, if on the subject of 3-our 
father's cheese, I advise you to be as mute as a 
mouse in one, for the future. 'T were better to 
keep that '' alta menta repositum.'" — Virgil. Hem! 

Dick. Wliy, what's the matter? anj^ misfortune? 
Broke, I fear ! 

Pang. No, not broke; but his name, as 'tis cus- 
tomar}^ in these cases, has a])peared in the Gazette. 



PANGLOSS. 119 

Dick. Xot broke, but Gazetted ! 

Pang. Check your pussions ; learn philosoph}". 
When the wife of the great Socrates threw a — 
hum ! threw a tea-pot at his erudite head, he Avas as 
cool as a cucumber. When Plato — 

Dick. Hang Plato! Avhat of my father? 

Pang. Do n't hang Plato ! The bees swarmed 
round his mellifluous mouth as soon as he was 
swaddled. " Gum in cunis apes in labelUs consedis- 
sent." — Cicero. Hem ! 

Dick. I wish you had a swarm round yours, with 
all ni}^ heart. Come, to the point. 

Pang. In due time. But calm j^our choler. "/m 
furor brevis est.''' — Horace. Hem! Eeadlhis. 

\_Gives a letter. 

Dick. [Snatches the letter, breaks it open, and reads'] 
"Dear Dick. This comes to inform j^ou I am in a 
perfect state of health, hoping 3'ou are the same." 
Ay, that 's the old beginning. " It was my lot, last 
week, to be made" — ay, a bankrupt, I suppose — 
"to be made a" — what? — " to be made a p-e-a-r" — 
a pear ! to be made a pear ! What does he mean by 
that? 

Pang. A peer — a peer of the realm. His lord- 
ship's orthography is a little loose; but several of 
his equals countenance the custom. Lord Logger- 
head always spells pihysician with an /. 

Dick. A i)eer ! what, my father! I 'm electrified. 
Old Daniel Dowlas made a peer ! But let me see — 
[j-eads on] — " pear of the realm. Lawyer Ferret 
got me my tilt" — oh, title — "and an estate of 



120 PANGLOSS. 

fifteen thousand per ann., by making me out next 
of kin to old Lord Duberly, because he died Avitli- 
out — without hair.'^ 'T is an odd reason, by the 
by, to be next of kin to a nobleman because he 
died bald. 

Pang. His lordship means heir — heir to his 
estate. We shall meliorate his style speedily — 
" reform it altogether." — Shakespeare. Ilem ! 

Dick. \_Iieads 0)1] "I sent my carrot" — carrot! 

Fang. He, he, he ! Chariot, his lordship means. 

Dick. \_Iieading'] '• With Dr. Pangloss in it." 

Pang. That's me. 

Dick. \_Reading'] "Eespect him; for he's an LL.D., 
and, moreover, an A. double S." \_They bow. 

Pang. His lordship kindly condescended to insert 
that at my request. 

Dick. \Rending'\ "And I have iiiade him your 
tutorer, to mend your cakelology." 

Pang. Cacology : from Kaxo;', mahis, and Aoyoj-, 
verhinn. — Vide Lexicon. Hem!" 

Dick. [Peadingl " Come Avith the Doctor to my 
house in Hanover Square." — Hanover Square! — 
'• I remain your affectionate father, to command, 
Duberly." 

Pang. That's his lordship's title. 

Dick. Is it? 

Pang. It is. 

Dick. Say sir to a lord's son. You have no more 
manners than a bear! 

Paiuj. Bear ! Under favor, young gentleman, I 
am the bear leader, being appointed your tutor. 



PANGLOSS. 121 

Dick. And what can you teach me? 

Pang. Prudence. Don't forget yourself in sudden 
success. ^^ Tecum habita." — Persius. Hem! 

Dick. Prudence to a nobleman's son with fifteen 
thousand a year ! 

Pang. Don't give way to 3'our passions. 

Dick: Give way ! I 'm wild — mad! You teach 
me, pooh ! I have been in London before, and know 
it requires no teaching to be made a modern fine 
gentleman. Wh}', it all lies in a nut-shell: — sport 
a curricle — walk Bond street — plaj" at faro — get 
drunk — dance reels — go to the opera— cut off your 
tail — pull on your pantaloons — and there 's a buck 
of the first fashion in town for you. D' ye think I 
don't know what's going? 

Pang. Mercy on me ! I shall have a veiy refrac- 
tory pupil. 

Dick. Not at all ; wc '11 be hand-and-glove to- 
gether, my little Doctor. I '11 drive j'ou down to 
all the races, with my terrier between your legs, 
in a tandem. 

Pang. Doctor Pangloss, the philosopher, with a 
terrier betAveen his legs, in a tandem ! 

Dick. I '11 tell you what. Doctor, I '11 make you 
my long-stop at cricket — you shall draw corks when 
I'm president — laugh at my jokes before comjDany — 
squeeze lemons for punch — cast up the reckoning — 
and Avoe betide 3'ou if you do n't keep sober enough 
to see me safe home after a jollification ! 

Pang. Make me a long-stop and a squeezer of 
lemons! This is more fatiguing than walking out 

D. S.-ll. 



122 PANGLOSS. 

with the lap-dogs. And are these the qualifications 
for a tutor, young gentleman ? 

Dick. To be sure they are. 'T is the way that 
half the prig parsons, who educate us honorables, 
jump into fat livings. 

Pang. 'Tis well they jump into something fat at 
last, for they must wear all the flesh off their bones 
in the process. 

Dick. Come now, tutor, go and call the waiter. 

Pang. Go and call ! sir, sir ! I 'd have you to 
understand, Mr. Dowlas — 

Dick. Ay^ let us undei'stand one another, Doctor. 
My father, I take it, comes down handsomely to you 
for your management of me. 

Pang. My lord has been liberal. 

Dick. But 'tis I must manage you. Doctor. Ac- 
knowledge this, and, between ourselves, I'll find 
means to double your pay. 

Pang. Double my — 

Dick. Do you hesitate? Why, man, you have set 
up for a modern tutor without knowing your trade. 

Pang. Double \wy pay ! say no more — done — 
" actum est." — Terence. Hem ! — Waiter ! [Bawling. 

Dick. That 's right. Tell him to pop my clothes 
into the carriage. They are in that bundle. 

Enter Waiter, r. 

Pa7ig. Waiter, hei*e ! put up the Honorable Mr. 
Dowlas's clothes and linen into his father's, Lord 
Duberly's chariot. 



PANG LOSS. 123 

Wait. Where ure they all, sir? 

Pang. All wrapped iip in the Honorable Mr. 
Dowlas's pocket-handkerchief. 

\_Exit Waiter with bundle, l. 

Dick. See 'em safe in, Doctor. 

Pang. I go, most worthy pupil. — Six hundred 
pounds a year! However deficient in the classics, 
his knowledge of arithmetic is admirable. 

'■^ I've often wished that I had clear, 
For life, six hundred pounds a year.'' — 

Dick. Nay, nay ; don't be so slow. 

Pang. Swift. Hem ! — I 'm gone. [_Exeunt, l. 



COSTUMES. 

Daniel Dowlas. — Green coat, richly embroidered; flowered 
waistcoat, silver button-holes ; salmon-colored breeches ; 
white silk stockings; shoes; paste buckles; lace ruffles; 
cornered hat, etc. 

Dick DowL.AS. — Green coat; white waistcoat; light breeches; 
white silk stockings; dress shoes. 

Doctor Pangloss. — Black velvet coat, with glass buttons; 
black cloth breeches; silk stockings; shoes and buckles; 
small cane; ruffles; three-cornered hat. 

AVaiter. — Plain blue coat; yellow waistcoat and breeches; 
white stockings and shoes. 

Lady Duberly. — AVhite satin petticoat; lace apron; loose pink 
satin gown, ornamented ; short sleeves; old-fashioned head- 
dress ; high-heeled shoes. 



124 INKLE AND YARICO. 



INKLE AND YARICO. 



By Geo. Colman the Elder. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Inkle, an avaricious speculator. 

Sir Christopher Curry, Governor of Barbadoes. 

Captain Campley, a brave young officer. 

Medium, father to Inkle; a trader. 

Trudge, Inkle's attendant. 

Mate. 

Yarico, an Indian maiden. 

Narcissa, Inkle's intended., hut married to Campley. 

WowsKi, an Indian girl attending Yarico. 

Patty, a servant girl. 

Time — The Seventeenth Century. 



Scene : — The Quay at Barbadoes. Enter Sir 
Christopher Curry, r. 

Sir C. Od's my life ! I can scarce contain my 
happiness. I have left them safe in church, in the 
middle of the ceremony. I ought to have given 
Narcissa away, they told me ; but I capered about 
so much for joy, that old Spintext advised me to go 



INKLE AND YARICO. 125 

and cool 1113' heels on the quti}^ till it was all over. 
Oh, I 'ni so happy ! and the}' shall see, now, what an 
old fellow can do at a wedding. 

Enter Inkle, l. 1. e. 

Inkle, (l.) Now for dispatch ! Hark'ee, old gen- 
tleman ! [To the Governor. 

Sir C. (r.) Well, j'oung gentleman ! 

Inkle. If I mistake not, I know your business 
here. 

Sir C. Egad, I believe half the island knows it by 
this time. 

Inkle. Then to the point : I have a female whom 
I wish to part with. 

Sir C. Yery likel}'^ ; it 's a common case, now-a- 
days, with many a man. 

Inkle. If 3'ou could satisf}' me you Avould use her 
mildly, and treat her with more kindness than is 
usual — for I can tell you she 's of no common 
stamp — perhaps avc might agree. 

Sir C. Oho! a slave! Faith, now I think on 't, 
my daughter mjiy want an attendant or two extra- 
ordinary ; and as you say she 's a delicate girl, above 
the common run, and none of your thick-lipped, flat- 
nosed, squabby, dumpling dowdies, I do n't much 
care if — 

Inkle. And for her treatment — 

Sir C. Look yo, young man ; I love to be plain : 
I shall treat her a good deal better than you would, 
I fancy ; for, though I witness this custom every day, 



126 INKLE AND YARICO. 

I can't help thinking the only excuse for buj'ing our 
fellow-creatures, is to rescue 'em from the hands of 
those who are unfeeling enough to bring them to 
market. 

Inkle. Fair words, old gentleman ; an Englishman 
Avon't put up with an affront. 

Sir C. An Englishman ! more shame for you ! Men 
who so fully feel the blessings of liberty, are doublj^ 
cruel in depriving the helpless of their freedom. 

Inkle. Let me assure you, sir, 'tis not my occu- 
pation ; but for a private reason — an instant pressing 
necessity — 

Sir 0. Well, well, I have a pressing necessity, too ; 
I can't stand to talk now; I expect company here 
presently ; but if you '11 ask for me to-morrow, at the 
Castle — 

Itikle. The Castle! 

Sir C. Ay, sir, the Castle — the Governor's Castle ; 
known all over Barbadoes. 

Inkle. \_Aside'] 'Sdeath ! this man must be on the 
Governor's establishment — his steward, perhaps — 
and sent after me, while Sir Christopher is impa- 
tientl}^ waiting for me. I 've gone too far ; my secret 
may be known. As 'tis, I '11 win this fellow to my 
interest. [^To Sir C] One word more, sir: my busi- 
ness must be done immediately; and, as you seem 
acquainted at the Castle, if j'ou should see me there — 
and there I mean to sleep to-night — 

Sir C. Oh, you do? 

Inkle. Your finger on your lips ; and never breathe 
a syllable of this transaction. 



INKLE AND YARICO. 127 

Sir C. No ! Why not ? 

Inkle. Because, for reasons which, perhaps, you '11 
know to-morrow, I might be injured with the Gov- 
ernor, whose most particular friend I am. 

Si7' C. \_Asicle^ So ! here 's a particular friend of 
mine, coming to sleep at my house, that I never saw 
in my life. I '11 sound this fellow. — I fancy, young 
gentleman, as you are such a bosom friend of the 
Governor's, you can hardly do any thing to alter 
your situation with him ? 

Inlde. Oh ! pardon me ; but you '11 find that here- 
after. Besides, you doubtless know his character? 

Sir C. Oh, as well as I do my own. But let's 
understand one another. You may trust me, now 
you 've gone so far. You arc acquainted with his 
character, no doubt, to a hair? 

Inkle. I am — I see we shall vinderstand each 
other. You know him, too, I see, as well as I — a 
very touchy, testy, hot old fellow. 

Sir C. [_AsicIe'\ Here 's a scoundrel ! I hot and 
touchy! I can hardly contain my j^assion ! — But 
I won't discover myself I '11 see the bottom of this. 
\_To Inkle.'] Well, now, as we seem to have come to 
a tolerable explanation, let's proceed to business; 
bring me the woman. 

Inkle. No ; there you must excuse me. I rather 
would avoid seeing her more ; and wish it to be 
settled without my seeming interference. My pres- 
ence might distress her — you conceive me? 

Sir C. [^Aside'j What an unfeeling rascal ! The 
poor girl's in love with him, I suppose. — No, no; 



128 INKLE AND YARICO. 



fair and open. 3Iy dealing 's with you, and 3'ou 
only. I sec her now, or I declare off. 

Inkle. Well, then, you must be satisfied. Yonder 's 
my servant. — Ha ! a thoug'ht has struck me. Come 
here, sir. 

Enter Trudge, l. 

I '11 write VL\y purpose, and send it her by him. It 's 
lucky that I taught her to decipher characters; my 
labor now is paid. [^Takes out his pocket-book and 
writes, still talking to himself.'] Tliis is somewhat less 
abrupt; 'twill soften matters. [Tb Trudge] Give this 
to Yarico ; then bring her hither with you. 

Trudge. I shall, sir. [^Going, L. 

Inkle. Stay; comeback. [J^suZe] This soft fool, 
if uninstructed, may add to her distress: his drivel- 
ling sympathy may feed her grief, instead of soothing 
it. — When she has read this paper, seem to make 
light of it ; tell her it is a thing of course, done purely 
for her good. I here inform her that I must part 
with her. D'3'e understand your lesson? 

Trudge. Pa-part with Ma-Madam Ya-ric-o ! 

Inkle. Why does the blockhead stammer? — I 
have my reasons. No muttering — and let me tell 
you, sir, if 3'our rare bargain were gone, too, 'twould 
be the better : she may babble our story of the forest, 
and spoil my fortune. 

Trudge. I 'm sorry for it, sir. I have lived with 
you a long Avhile ; I 've half a year's wages, too, duo 
the 25th ult., for dressing your hair and scribbling 



INKLE AND YARICO. 129 

your parchments; but take ni}" sei^ibbling, take my 
frizzing, take my wages, and I and Wows will 
take ourselves off together : she saved my life, and 
nothing but death shall part us. 

Inkle. Impertinent ! go and deliver your message. 

Trudge. I 'm gone, sir. I never carried a letter 
with such ill-will in all my born days. [Exit, l. 

Sir C. Well, shall I see the girl ? 

Inkle. She'll be here jiresently. One thing I had 
forgot: when she is yours, I need not caution you, 
after the hints I 've given, to keep her from the 
Castle. If Sir Christopher should see her, 'tAvould 
lead, you know, to a discovery of what I wish 
concealed. 

Sir C. Depend upon me; Sir Christopher will 
know no more of our meeting than he does at this 
moment. 

Inkle. Your secrecy shall not be unrewarded; I'll 
recommend you particularly to his good graces. 

Sir C. Thank ya, thank 3'c ; but I 'm pretty much 
in his good graces as it is : I do n't knoAV any body 
he has a greater respect for. 



'He-enter Trudge, l. 

Inkle. Now, sir, have you performed your message ? 

Trudge. Yes, I gave her the letter. 

Inlde. And where is Yarico ? Did she say she'd 
come? Did n't you do as you were ordered ? Didn't 
you speak to her? 



180 INKLE AND YARICO. 

Trudge. I could n't, sir, I could n't. I intended 
to say what you bid me ; but I felt such a pain in my 
throat, I could n't speak a word for the soul of me ; 
and so, sir, I fell a-crying. 

hikle. (c.) Blockhead ! 

Sir C. (r.) 'Sblood ! but he 's a very honest block- 
head. Tell me, my good fellow, what said the girl? 

Trudge, (l.) Nothing at all, sir. She sat down, 
with her two hands clasped on her knees, and looked 
so pitifully in my face I could not stand it. Oh, here 
she comes. I '11 go and find Wows. If I must be 
melancholy, she shall keep me company. [JS'xiY, l. 

Sir C. Od's my life ! as comely a girl as ever I 
saw ! 



Enter Yarico, l., who looks for some time in Inkle's 
face, bursts into tears, and falls on his neck. 

Inkle, (c.) In tears! Nay, Yarico, why this? 

Yar. (L.) Oh, do not — do not leave me ! 

Inkle. Why, simple girl ! I 'm laboring for your 
good. My interest here is nothing; I can do nothing 
from myself. You are ignorant of our country's 
customs. I must give way to men more powerful, 
who will not have me with you. But see, my Yarico, 
ever anxious for j-our welfare, I've found a kind, 
good person who will protect 3-ou. 

Yar. Ah ! why not you protect me ? 

Inkle. I have no means. — How can I ? 

Yar. Just as I sheltered you. Take me to yonder 



INKLE AND YARICO. 131 

mountain, where I see no smoke from tall, high 
liouses, filled Avith your cruel countrymen. None 
of your princes there will come to take me from 
you. And should they stray that way, we '11 find a 
lurking-i>lace just like my own poor cave, where 
many a day I sat beside you, and blessed the chance 
that brought you to it, that I might save 3'our life. 

Sir C. (R.) His life! Zounds! my blood boils at 
the scoundrel's ingratitude ! 

Yar. Come, come, let us go. I always feared 
these cities. Let's fly and seek the woods; and 
there we '11 wander hand in hand together. No 
cares shall vex us then : we '11 let the day glide by 
in idleness ; and you shall sit in the shade, and 
watch the sunbeam playing on the brook, Avhile I 
sing the song that pleases you. No cares, love, but 
for food ; and we '11 live cheerily, I warrant. In the 
fresh, early morning, you shall hunt down our game, 
and I Avill pick 3'ou berries. And then, at night, I '11 
trim our bed of leaves, and lie down in peace. — Oh ! 
we shall be so happy! 

In/de. Hear me, Yarico. My countrymen and 
yours differ as much in minds as in complexions. 
We were not born to live in woods and caves — to 
seek subsistence by pursuing beasts. We Christians, 
girl, hunt money — a thing unknown to you. But, 
here, 'tis money which brings us ease, plentj-, com- 
mand, power — every thing; and, of course, happi- 
ness. You are the bar to my attaining this ; there- 
fore, 'tis necessary for my good — and which I think 
you value — 



132 INKLE AND YARICO. 

Yar. You know I do; so much, that it would 
break my heart to leave you. 

Likle. But we must j^art. If you arc seen with 
me, I shall lose all. 

Yar. I gave up all for you — m}- friends, my 
country — all that was dear to me; and still grown 
dearer, since 3'ou sheltered there — all, all was left 
for you ; and were it now to do again, again I 'd 
cross the seas, and follow you all the world over. 

Inkle. We idle time, sir : she is yours. See you 
obey this gentleman ; 'twill be the better for you. 

[Going. Puts Yarico across to c. 

Yar. Oh, barbarous! Do not, do not abandon me! 

Inkle, (l.) No more. 

Yar. Stay but a little : I sha'n't live long to be a 
burden to you : your cruelty has cut me to the heart. 
Protect me but a little. Or J '11 obey this man, and 
undergo all hardships for your good : stay but to 
witness them: I soon shall sink with grief: tarry 
till then, and hear me bless your name when I am 
dying; and beg you, now and then, when I am gone, 
to heave a sigh for your poor Yarico. 

Inkle. I dare not listen. You, sir, I hope, will 
take good care of her. \_Going. 

Sir C. Care of her ! that I will. I '11 cherish her 
like ni}' own daughter, and pour balm into the heart 
of a poor, innocent girl that has been wounded by 
the artifices of a scoundin^l. 

Inkle. Ha! 'Sdeath, sir, how dare 3'ou ! 

Sir C. 'Sdeath, sir, how dare you look an honest 
man in the face ! [^Crosses, c. 



INKLE AND YARICO. loo 

Inkle, (l.) Sir, yoii shall feel — 

Sir C. (c.) Feci! — It's more than ever j'oii did, 
I believe. Mean, sordid wretch ! dead to all sense 
of honor, gratitude, or humanity ! I never heard 
of such barbarit}' ! I have a son-in-LiAv who has 
been left in the same situation ; but if I thought him 
cajDable of such cruelty, I would return him to sea, 
Avith a peck loaf, in a cockle-shell! — Come, come; 
cheer up, my girl ! You sha'n't Avant a friend to pro- 
tect you, I warrant you. \_Tokincj Yarico by the hand. 

Inkle. Insolence ! The Governor shall hear of 
this insult. 

Sir C. The Governor ! — Liar ! cheat ! rogue ! 
impostor! — breaking all ties j^ou ought to keep, 
and pretending to those you have no right to. The 
Governor never had such a fellow in the whole cata- 
logue of his acquaintance. The Governor disowns 
you — the Governor disclaims you — the Governor 
abhors you! and, to jour utter confusion, here 
stands the Governor to tell you so ! here stands old 
Curry, who never talked to a rogue without telling 
him what he thought of him. 

Inkle. Sir Christopher ! — Lost and undone ! 

Medium. IWithoiit, l.] Hollo! young Multiplica- 
tion ! Zounds! I have been peeping in every cranny 
of the house. Why, j^oung Eule-of-thi-ec ! [Enters 
from the inn, L. s. e.] Oh ! here you are, at last. — 
Ah, Sir Christopher ! what, are you there ! Too 
impatient to wait at home. But here's one that 
will make you eas}', I fancy. 

[Clapping Inkle on the shoulder. 



134 INKLE AND YARICO. 

Sir C. (c.) How came you to know him? 

MM. Ha, ha ! Well, that 's curious enough, too. 
So you have been talking here without finding out 
each other? 

Sir C. No, no; I have found him out, with a 
vengeance. 

Med. Not you. Why, this is the dear boy. It's 
my nef)hew, that is; your son-in-law, that is to be. 
It 's Inkle. 

Sir C. It's a lie! and you're a purblind old 
booby! and this dear boy is a scoundrel ! 

Med. Heyday, what 's the meaning of this? 
One was mad before, and he has bit the other, I 
suppose. 

Sir C. But here comes the dear boy — the true 
boy — the jolly boy, piping hot from church, with 
my daughter. 



JSnter Campley, Narcissa, and Patty, r. 

Med. Campley ! 

Sir C. Who? Campley? It's no such thing. 

Camp. That 's my name, indeed. Sir Christoplicr. 

Sir C. And how came you, sir, to impose upon 
me, and assume the name of Inkle? — a name which 
Qwevj man of honesty ought to be ashamed of 

Camp. \_Crosses to Sir C] I never did, sir. Since 
I sailed from England with your daughter, my affec- 
tion has daily increased ; and when I came to explain 
myself to you, by a number of concurring circura- 



INKLE AND YARICO. 135 

stances, which I am now partly acquainted with, 
you mistook me for that gentleman. Yet, had I 
even then been aware of your mistake, 1 must 
confess, the regard for my own happiness would 
have tempted me lo let you remain undeceived. 

Sir G. And did you, Narcissa, join in — 

Nar. How could I, my dear sir, disobey you? 

Patty. But, your Honor, what young lady could 
refuse a capital n ? 

Camp. I am a soldier, Sir Christopher. Love 
and war is the soldier's motto. Though my income 
is trifling to your intended son-in-law's, still the 
chance of war has enabled me to support the object 
of my love above indigence. Her fortune. Sir Chris- 
topher, I do not consider myself by any means enti- 
tled to. 

Sir C. 'Sblood ! but you must, though . Gwe me 
your hand, my young Mars, and bless you both to- 
gether. Thank you, thank you, for cheating an old 
fellow into giving his daughter to a lad of spirit, 
when he was going to throw her away upon one in 
whose breast the mean passion of avarice smothers 
the smallest spark of affection or humanity. 

JVar. I have this moment heard a story of a trans- 
action in the forest, which, I own, would have ren- 
dered compliance with your former demands very 
disagreeable. 

Patty. Yes, sir ; I told my mistress he had brought 
over a Hotty-pot gentlewoman. 

Sir C. [To Narcissa] Yes, but he Avould have left 
her for you, and you for his interest ; and sold you. 



13G INKLE AND VARICO. 

perhaps, as ho has this j^oor girl to mc, as a requital 
for preserving his life. 
Nar. How ! 

Enter Trudge and Wowski, l. 

Trudge. Come along, Wows ! take a long last 
leave of your poor mistress : throw your pretty 
ebony arms about her neck. 

Woics. No, no ; she not go. You not leave poor 
Wowski ? \^Throicing Iter arms about Yarico. 

Sir C. Poor girl ! A companion, I take it. 

Trudge. A thing of my own, sir. I couldn't help 
following m}^ master's example in the woods. "Like 
master, like man," sir. 

Sir C. But you would not sell her, you dog, would 
you ? 

Trudge. Hang me, like a dog, if I would, sir! 

Sir C. So say I to every fellow that breaks an 
obligation due to the feelings of a man. But, old 
Medium, what have you to say for your hopeful 
nephew ? 

Med. I never speak ill of my friends, Sir Chris- 
topher. 

Sir C. PshaAv ! 

Inkle. [Comes rfo?r7!, L.] Then let mc speak: hear 
me defend a conduct — 

;S7/- C. Defend! Zounds! plead guilty at once: 
it 's the onl}^ hope left of obtaining mercy. 

Inkle. Suppose, old gentleman, j^ou had a son. 

Sir C. 'Sblood ! Then I 'd make him an honest 



INKLE AND YARICO. 137 

fellow; and teach him that the feeling heart never 
knows greater pride than when it's employed in 
giving succor to the unfortunate. I 'd teach him to 
be his father's own son to a hair. 

Inkle. Even so my father tutored me from infanc}', 
bending my tender mind, like a J^oung sapling, to his 
Avill. Interest was the grand prop round which ho 
twined my pliant, green affections. Taught me in 
childhood to repeat old sayings, all tending to his 
own fixed principles : and the first sentence that I 
ever lisped was, " Charity begins at home." 

Sir C. I shall never like a proverb again, as long 
as I live. 

Inkle. As I grew up, he'd prove — and by exam- 
ple — were I in want, I might e'en starve for what 
the world cared for their neighbors; why, then, 
should I care for the world? Men now lived for 
themselves. These were his doctrines. Then, sir, 
what would you say, should I, in spite of habit, 
precept, education, fly in my father's face and spurn 
his counsels? 

Sir C Say? AVhy, that you were an honest, un- 
dutiful fellow. Oh, away with such principles ! — 
principles Avhich destroy all confidence between 
man and man ; principles which none but a rogue 
could instil, and none but a rogue could imbibe. 
Principles — 

Inkle. Which I renounce ! 

Sir a Eh ! 

Inkle. Renounce entirely. Ill-founded precept 
too long has steeled my breast ; but still 't is 

U. S.— 12. 



138 INKLE AND YARICO. 

vulnerable. This trial was too much. Nature, 
'gainst habit, combating within me, has penetrated 
to my heart — a heart, I own, long callous to the 
feelings of sensibility : but now it bleeds, and bleeds 
for my poor Yarico. Oh, let me clasp her to it while 
't is glowing, and mingle tears of love and penitence ! 

Trudge. \_Capering abouf^ Woavs, listen to that! 

[WowsKi goes to Trudge. 

Yar. And shall we, shall we be happy ? 

Inkle. Ay — ever, ever, Yarico. 

Yar. I knew we should — and yet I feared. But 
shall I still watch over you ? Oh, love, you surely 
gave your Yarico such pain only to make her feel 
this happiness the greater. 

Woics. [^Going to Yarico] Oh, Wowski so happy! 
and 3'et I think I not glad, neither. r 

Trudge. Eh, Wows! How? — why not? 

Wows. 'Cause I can't help cry. 

Sir C. Then, if that's the case, bless me if I 
think I'm very glad, either. What is the matter 
with my eyes? — Young man, your hand ; I am nowl 
proud and happy to shako it. 

Med. Well, Sir Christopher, what do you say to 
my hopeful nephew now? 

Sir C. Sa}' ! wh}-, confound the fellow, I say that 
it is ungenerous enough to remember the bad action 
of a man who has virtue left in his heart to repent 
it. \_To Trudge] As for you, my good fellow, I must, 
with your master's permission, employ you myself. 

Trudge. Oh, rare! Bless your honor! Wows, 
you '11 -be lady to a Governor's factotum. '. _ /. 



INKLE AND YARICO. 139 

Wows. Iss — I Lach' Jactotum. 

Sir C. And noAV, m}- young folks, wo '11 drive 
home and celebrate the wedding. Od's my life ! I 
long to be shaking a foot at the fiddles ; and I shall 
dance ten times the lighter for reforming an Inkle, 
while I have it in my power to reward the innocence 
of a Yarico. 

Tableau. Curtain. 



COSTUMES. 

Inkle. — Nankeen trowsers and jacket; white waistcoat; light 

hat; white stockings; black belt and hanger. 
Sir Christopher. — Blue coat, embroidered button-holes; white 

waistcoat and breeches; white hat, gold button and loop; 

knee and shoe buckles; and white silk stockings. 
Campley. — Regimental coat; white trowsers ; sash, sword, hat 

etc. 
Medium. — Plain brown coat and waistcoat; blue striped 

trowsers; white stockings; shoes; black leather belt and 

hanger. 
Trudge. — Nankeen trowsers and jacket; white waistcoat and 

stockings; shoes; hat; black leather belt and hanger. 
Yarico. — AVhite and colored striped muslin dress, with colored 

feathers and ornaments; leopard's skin di-apery across one 

shoulder; dark flesh-colored stockings and arms; sandals; 

various-colored feathers in head; a quantity of colored beads 

around the head, neck, wrists, arms, and ankles. 
WowsKi. — Black skin, arms and legs; sandals; plain white 

dress, with small skin hung across shoulder; beads, etc. 
Narcissa. — Handsome white trimmed dress, with ornamented 

head, satin hat, etc. 
Patty. — White muslin dress, trimmed with blue and pink 

ribbon; apron, hat. etc. 



140 THE DECEIVED BRIDE. 



THE DECEIVED BEIDE. 



From The Honeymoon^ by John Tobin. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
Duke Aeanza. Juliana. Balthazar. 



Scene I : — A Cottage. A table and tico chairs. A 
door at 1. e. l. Enter the Duke, leading in 
Juliana, l. d. 

Duke. [^Brings a chair foncard, c, and sits doivnl 
You are welcome home. 

Jul. \_C7'osses, R.] Home! You are merry. This 
retired spot 
AVould be a palace for an qwl ! 

Duke. 'T is ours. 

Jul. Ay, for the time we stay in it. 

Duke. By Heaven, 
This is the noble mansion that I spoke of! 

Jid. This ! — You are not in earnest, though 3'ou 
bear it 
With such a sober broAV. ^- Come, come, you jest. 

Duke. Indeed, I jest not. Were it ours in jest. 
We should have none, wife. 



THE DECEIVED BRIDE. 141 

Jul. Arc 3'ou serious, sir ? 

Duke. I swear, iis I'm your liusband, and no duke. 

Jul. No duke? 

Duke. But of my own creation, lad}'. 

Jul. Am I betrayed? — Nay, do not play the fool ! 
It is too keen a joke. 

Duke. You '11 find it true. 

Jul. You are no duke, then ? 

Duke. None. 

Jul. Have I been cozened ? 
And have you no estate, sir? 
No palaces, nor houses? 

Duke. None but this: — 
A small, snug dwelling, and in good repair. 

Jul. Nor money, nor effects ? 

Duke. None that I know of 

Jul. And the attendants who have waited on us — 

Duke. The}' were my friends ; who, having done 
my business, 
Are gone about their own. 

Jul. \_A.ude~\ Why, then, 'tis clear. — 
That I was ever born ! — What are you, sir? 

Duke. [Rises] I am an honest man ; that may 
content you : 
Young, nor ill-favored; should not that content you? 
I am your husband ; and that must content you. 

Jul. I will go home! [Going, l. 

Duke. Y^ou are at home already. [Staying her. 

Jul. I '11 not endure it ! — But remember this, 
Duke or no duke, I '11 be a duchess, sir. [Crosses, l. 

Duke. A duchess ! j'ou shall be a queen — to all 



142 THE DECEIVED BRIDE, 

Who, by the courtesy, will call you so. 

Jul. And I will have attendance. 

Duke. So you shall, . . 

When you have learned to wait upon yourself. 

Jul. To wait upon myself .! Must I bear this ? 
I could tear out my eyes, that bade you woo me, 
And bite my tongue in two, for saying yes ! 

[Crosses, R. 

Duke. And if 3'ou should, 'twould grow again. — 
I think, to be an lion est' yeoman's wife, 
(For such, m}^ would-be duchess, you will find me,) 
You were cut out b}' nature. 

Jul. You will find, then, 
That education, sir, has spoiled me for it. — 
Why! do you think I '11 work? 

Duke. I think 't will happen, wife. 

Jul. What ! rub and scrub 
Your noble palace clean ? 

Duke. Those taper fingers 
Will do it daintily. 

Jul. And dress yOur victuals 
(If there be any) ? — Oh, I could go mad ! \_CrosseSy l._' 

Duke. And mend xwy hose, and darn niy night- 
caps neatl}' : 
Wait, like an echo, till j'ou '^rc spoken to — 

Jul. Or, like aclock, talk only once ah hour? 

Duke. Or like a dial ; for that quietly 
Performs its 'work, and never speaks at all. 

Jul. To feed your poultry and your hogs! — 6b, 
monStrQus ! ■ .■ ' : .; ' 

And when I stir abroad. On great occasions, 



THE DECEIVED BRIDE. 143 

Cany a squeaking tithe pig to the vicar; 

Or jolt with higglers' wives the market trot, 

To sell your eggs and butter! [^Crosses, l. 

Duke. Excellent ! 
How well you sum the duties of a wife ! 
Wh}', Avhat a blessing I shall have in j^ou ! ^ 

Jul. A blessing! 

Duke. When they talk of you and me, 
Darby and Joan shall no more be remembered : — 
We shall be happy. 

Jul. Shall we? 

Duke. Wondrous happy ! 
Oh, you will make an admirable Avife I 

Jul. I'll make a devil ! 

Duke. What ? 

Jul. A very devil! .. , 

Duke. Oh, no; we'll have no devils. 

Jul. I '11 not bear it ! 
I "11 to my father's ! — 

Duke. Gently: you forget 
You are a perfect stranger to the road. 

J}il. Mj' wrongs will find a way, or make one. 

Duke. Softly!^ 
You stir not hence, except to take the air ; 
And then I '11 breathe it with you. 

Jul. What, confine me? 

Duke. 'T would be unsafe to trust you "yet abroad. 

Jul. Am I a truant schoolboy ? 

Duke. Nay, not so ; 
But you must keep your bounds. ; :. '. 

Jul: And if :! break them, 



144 THE DECEIVED BRIDE. 

Perhaps you '11 beat me. 

Duke. Beat 3'ou ! 
The man that lays his hand upon a woman, 
Save in the way of kindness, is a wretch 
Whom 'twere gross flattery to name a coward. — 
I '11 talk to you, lad}-, but not beat you. 

Jul. Well, if I may not travel to my father, 
I may write to him, surely! — and I will, 
If I can meet, within your spacious dukedom, 
Three such unhoped-for miracles at once, 
As pens, and ink, and paper. 

Duke. You will find them 
In the next room. — A word before you go: 
You are my wife, by ever}' tie that 's sacred; 
The partner of my fortune and my bed — 

Jul. Your fortune ! 

Duke. Peace ! — No fooling, idle woman ! 
Beneath the attesting eye of Heaven, I 've sworn 
To love, to honor, cherish, and jM-otect you. 
No human power can part us. What remains, then? 
To fret and worry and torment each other, 
And give a keener edge to our hard fate 
By sharp upbraidings and pei'petual jars? — 
Or, like a loving and a patient pair, 
(Waked from a dream of grandeur, to depend 
Ujion their daily labor for support,) 
To soothe the taste of fortune's lowliness 
With sweet consent, and mutual fond endearment? — 
Now to your chamber — write whate'er jow jjlease ; 
But pause before you stain the spotless paper 
With Avords that may inflame, but can not heal. 



THE DECEIVED BRIDE. 145 

Jul. Wh}', what a patient worm you take me for! 

Duke. I took you for a Avife ; and ere I 've done, 
I '11 know you for a good one. 

J\d. You shall know me 
For a right woman, full of her own sex; 
AVho, when she suffei's wrong, will speak her anger ; 
Who feels her own prerogative, and scorns. 
By the jiroud reason of superior man, 
To be taught joatiencc Avhen her swelling heart 
Cries out revenge ! \_Exit at door in c. 

Duke. Why, let the flood rage on ! 
There is no tide in woman's wildest passion 
But hath an ebb. I 've broke the ice, however. 
Write to her father ! She may Avrite a folio — 
But if she send it ! — 'T will divert her spleen — 
The flow of ink may save her blood-letting. 
Perchance she may have fits! — They are seldom 

mortal. 
Save when the doctor's sent for. 
Though I have heard some husbands say, and ■wisely, 
A woman's honor is her safest guard, 
Yet there 's some virtue in a lock and key. 

[Locks the door. 
So, thus begins our honeymoon. 'T is well ! 
For the first fortnight, ruder than March Avinds 
She '11 blow a hurricane ; the next, perhaps, 
Like April, she may wear a changeful face 
Of storm and sunshine ; and, Avhen that is past. 
She Avill break glorious as unclouded May; 
And where the thorns grew bare, the spreading 
blossoms 
D. s.— la. 



146 THE DECEIVED BRIDE. 

Meet with no lagging frost to kill their sweetness. 

Whilst others, for a month's delirious joy, 

Buy a dull age of penance, we, more wisely, 

Taste first the wholesome bitter of the cup, 

That after to the verj- lees shall relish ; 

And to the close of this frail life prolong 

The pure delights of a well-governed marriage. 

lExit, R. 

Scene II : — The Cottage. Tic o chairs. J xjliat^ a sitting 
at her needle; the Duke steals in behind, through 
D. in flat. 

Duke. Come, no more work to-night : \sits by her'\ 
it is the last 
That we shall spend beneath this humble roof 
Our fleeting month of trial being past, 
To-morrow you arc free. 

Jul. Nay, now you mock me. 
And turn my thoughts upon my former follies. 
You know that, to be mistress of the world, 
I would not leave you. 

Duke. No ! 

Jul. No, on my honor. 

Duke. I think you like me better than you did : 
And yet 'tis natural. Come, come, be honest; 
You have a sort of hankering — no wild wish. 
Or vehement desire — yet a slight longing, 
A simple preference, if you had your choice, 
To be a duchess, rather than the wife 
Of a low peasant? 



THE DECEIVED BRIDE. 147 

Jul. No; indeed you wrong mo. 

Duke. I marked 3-011 closely at the palace, wife : 
In the full tcmijest of your speech, your ojg 
Would glance to take the room's dimensions, 
And pause upon each ornament; and then 
There would break from you a half-smothered sigh, 
Which spoke distinctl}^, ''These should have been 

mine: " 
And therefore, though with a Avell-tempered spirit, 
You have some secret swellings of the heart 
When these things rise to your imagination. 

Jul. No, indeed : sometimes in ni}^ di'eams, I own — 
You know we can not help our dreams — 

Duke. What then ? 

Jul. Why, I confess, that sometimes, in my dreams, 
A noble house and splendid equipage, 
Diamonds and pearls and gilded furniture, 
W^ill glitter like an empt3' pageant b}^ me ; 
And then I am apt to rise a little feverish : 
But never do my sober Avaking thoughts — 
As 1 'm a woman worthy of belief — 
Wander to such forbidden vanities. 
Yet, after all, it was a scurvy trick — 
Your palace and your pictures and your plate ; 
Your fine plantations ; your delightful gardens, 
That were a second Paradise — for fools ; 
And then j'our grotto, so divinely cool ; 
Your Gothic summer-house and Roman temple — 
'T would puzzle much an antiquarian 
To find out their remains. 

Duke. No more of that ! 



148 THE DECEIVED BRIDE. 

Jul. You had a dozen spacious vineyards, too ; 
Alas ! the grapes are sour ; and, above all, 
The Barbary courser that was breaking for me — 

Duke. Nay, you shall ride him yet. 

J\d. Indeed ! 

Duke. Believe me, 
"We must forget these things. 

Jul. They are forgot; 
And, by this kiss, we '11 think of them no more, 
But when we want a theme to make us merry. 

Duke. It was an honest one, and spoke thy soul ; 
And by the fresh lip and unsullied breath, 
Which joined to give it sweetness — 



Enter Balthazar, l. 

Jul. [Crosses, c.'] How! My father! 

Duke. Signior Balthazar ! You arc welcome, sir, 
To our poor habitation. 

Bal. Welcome! Villain, 
I come to call your dukeship to account, 
And to reclaim my daughter. 

Duke. [Aside'] You will find her 
Eeclaimed already, or I have lost my pains. 

Bal. Let me come at him ! 

Jul. Patience, my dear father ! 

Duke. Nay, give him room. Put up your weapon, 
sir — 
'T is the worst argument a man can use ; 
So let it be the last. As for your daughter. 



THE DECEIVED BRIDE. 149 

She passes by another title here, 

In whieh your Avhole authority is sunk — 

My lawful wife. 

Bal. Lawful ! — his lawful wife ! 
I shall go mad ! Did not you basely steal her 
Under a vile pretense? 

Duke. What I have done 
I '11 answer to the law. 
Of w^hat do you complain ? 

Bal. Why, are you not 
A most notorious, self-confessed impostor? 

Duke. True; I am somewhat dwindled from the 
state 
In which you lately knew me : nor alone 
Should my exceeding change provoke your wonder ; 
You 'II find your daughter is not what she was. 

Bal. How, Juliana? 

Jul. 'T is, indeed, most true: 
I left you, sir, a froward, foolish girl. 
Full of capricious thoughts and fiery spirits, 
Which, Avithout judgment, I would vent on all: 
But I have learned this truth indelibly — 
That modesty in deed, in word, and thought. 
Is the prime grace of woman ; and with that. 
More than by frowning looks and saucy speeches. 
She may persuade the man that rightly loves her, 
Whom she was ne'er intended to command. 

Bal. Amazement ! Wh}', this metamorphosis 
Exceeds his own ! What spells, what cunning witch- 
craft 
Has he employed? 



150 THE DECEIVED BRIDE. 

Jul. None : he has sinipl}' taught me 
To look into myself: his powerful rhetoric 
Hath with strong influence impressed \nj heart, 
And made me see at length the thing I have been, 
And what I am, sir. 

Bed. Are you, then, content 
To live with him? 

Jul. Content ? I am most happy. 

Bed. Can you forget your ciying wrongs ? 

Jxd. Not quite, sir; 
They sometimes serve to make us merry with. 

Bal. How like a villain he abused your father ! 

Jul. You will forgive him that, for my sake. 

Bal. Never ! 

Duke. Why, then, 'tis plain you seek your own 
revenge, 
And not your daughter's happiness. 

Bal. No matter: 
I charge you, on your duty as my daughter, 
Follow me ! 

Duke. On a wife's obedience, 
I charge you, stir not ! 

Jul. You, sir, are my fatlier : 
At the bare mention of that hallowed name, 
A thousand recollections rise within me. 
To witness you have ever been a kind one : — 
This is my husband, sir. 

Bal. Thy husband ; well — 

Jul. 'T is fruitless now to think upon the means 
He used — I am irrevocably his : 
And when he plucked me from my parent tree. 



THE DECEIVED BRIDE. 151 

To graft me on himself, he gathered with me 

My love, my duty, my obedience : 

And, by adoption, I am bound as strictly 

To do his reasonable bidding now 

As once to follow yours. 

Duke. [Aside] Most excellent ! 

Bal. Yet I will be revenged ! 

Duke. You would have justice? 

Bal. I will : so forthwith meet me at the duke's. 

[Crosses, l. 

Duke. I am the duke. 

Bal. The jest is somewhat stale, sir. 

Duke. You '11 find it true. 

Bal. Indeed ! 

Jul. [Aside'] Be still, my heart! 

Bal. I think you would not trifle with me now. 

Duke. I am the Duke Aranza ! 
[Throws off a disguise, and appears in a splendid dress. 
And what 's my greater pride, this lady's husband. 
You now must see [Leads Juliana l. c. 

The drift of what I have been lately acting. 
And what I am. And though, being a woman 
Giddy with youth and unrestrained fancy, 
The domineering spirit of her sex 
I have rebuked too sharply ; yet 't was done 
As skillful surgeons cut beyond the wound. 
To make the cure complete. 

Bal. You have done most wisely. 
And all my anger dies in speechless wonder. 

Duke. What says my Juliana? 

Jxd. I am lost, too. 



152 THE DECEIVED BRIDE. 

In admiration, sir; my fearful thoughts 
Else, on a trembling wing, to that rash height 
Whence, growing dizzy once, I fell to earth. 
Yet since your goodness for the second time 
AVill lift me, though unworthy, to that pitch 
Of greatness, there to hold a constant flight, 
I will endeavor so to bear myself, 
That in the Avorld's eye and my friends' observance — 
And what 's far dearer, your most precious judg- 
ment — 
I may not shame your dukedom. 

Duke. Bravely spoken ! 
Why, now you shall have rank and equipage — 
Servants, for 3'ou can now command 3'ourself — 
Glorious api)arel, not to swell joxw pride. 
But to give luster to your modesty : 
All pleasures, all delights that noble dames 
Warm their chaste fancies with, in full abundance 
Shall flow upon you ; — and it shall go hard 
But you shall ride tlic Barbarj' courser, too. 

Tableau. Curtain. 



COSTUMES. 

Duke. — First dress — plain, rather coarse suit: second dress — 
splendid satin ducal vest; rich velvet robe, trimmed with 
green and silver; white silk pantaloons; white shoes, etc. 

Balthazar. — Plain suit. 

Juliana. — First dress — splendid bridal attire : second dress — 
neat white muslin. 



THE GREEK GIRL AND THE BARBARIAN. 153 




THE GEEEK GIEL AND THE BAEBAEIAN. 



From Tnffomar, as translated from the German by Maria Lovell. 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 



IxGOMAK, leader of a band of Alemanni. 
Partiienia, a Massilian girl. 



154 THE GREEK GIRL AND THE BARBARIAN. 

Scene : — In the Cevennes. A Wood, densely arched 
icith trees ; where the bushes are less thick, a 7nass 
of wild rock. Ingomar is seen, leaning upon a 
spear. 

Ingomar. "With us is Freedom. She lives in the 
open air; 
In woods she dwells ; upon the rocks she breathes ; 
Now here, now there ; not caring for to-day — 
No, nor providing for to-inorrow : 
Freedom is hunting, feeding, fighting, danger : 
That, that is freedom : that it is which makes 
The veins to swell, the breast to heave and glow : 
Ay, that is freedom ; that is pleasure — life ! 

Enter Parthenia, r. u. e. 

Ah ! this must be the captive. Woman, 

Thou seekest Ingomar : this is he. 

The}^ say thou 'rt come to treat for this man's ransom : 

What is thy offer? 

Par. Jewels of more value 

Than all the gold of earth : — a faithful wife's 
Prayers to lier latest breath ; a daughter's tears ; 
A rescued household's deathless gratitude ; 
The blessing of the gods, whose liberal hands 
Recompense deeds of mercy thousand-fold. 
Look : kneeling at your feet, a fainting child 
Implores a gray-haired father's liberty, 
lie is infirm, old, valueless to j'ou ; 
Bat, oh ! how precious to his widowed home ! 
Give him, then, up — oh, give him up to me ! 



THE GREEK GIRL AND THE BARBARIAN. 155 

Ing. Woman, thy father is booty to our tribe : 
Were he but mine, I 'd give him to thee freely. 
If onl}' to be rid of liis tears and sighs. 
But if thou hast deceived us, and dost dare — 

Par. [^Suddenly rising'] Enough ! — 
There need no threats. I but misunderstood you, 
Thinking you laad human hearts ; I '11 mend of that, 
And speak now to your intei*ests. 
You ask gold for his ransom — he has none; 
But he has strength and skill that yet may earn it, 
With opportunity afforded him. 
Here there is none — he can not pay a drachma. 
Keep him, and slavery, gnawing his free heart, 
In a few weeks shall leave you but his bones. 
But, set him free, mj- mother and myself 
Will labor with him ; we will live on crusts, 
And all the sui-plus of our daily toil 
Be 3"oui-s, till the full ransom be accomplished. 

Ing. That 's not without some sense ; but where 
is our surety 
The compact should be kept ? 

Par. It shall not fail 

For lack of that : I '11 leave with you a pledge 
Dearer to him than liberty or life. 

Ing. Hast brought it Avith thee? 

Par. Ay. 

Ing. Show it. 

Par. Myself 

Ing. Thyself? 

Par. If you but knew 
How pi'ccious to him is his child, you 'd not 



15G TIIK GREEK GIRL AND THE BARBARIAN. 

Despise the hostage. 

Ing. It 's a strange fancy ; and yet — j)''^^^'^^' ' i^Oj 
no — 
Burden iis with a woman ! 

Par. No — no burden ; 

I 'II be a help to you : tliese willing hands 
Shall do more work than twenty pining slaves. 
You do not guess my usefulness : I spin, 
Can weave ^^our garments, and prejjare your meals. 
Am skilled in music, and can tell brave tales, 
And sing sweet songs to lull you to repose. 
I am strong, too — healthy both in mind and body; 
And when my heart 's at case, my natural temper 
Is always joyous, happ}", gay. Oh, fear not ! 

Ing. Troth, there 's some use in that ; thy father 
can 
Only cry. 

Par. Say yes — say yes, and set him free ! 

Ing. I'd counsel with my comrades. Staj' thou 
here. \^Exit Ingomar, l. Parthenia gazes 
anxiously after him. 

Par. Father, it must be so ; my mother grieves — 
Oh, dry her tears. I am yd young and strong; 
I could bear easil}' what Avould kill thee. 
Father, thou shalt be free, thou shalt be free ! 

Be-enter Ingomar, l. Parthenia appi'oaehes him 
eagerly. 

Ing. Woman, your wish is granted; we take thee 
As hostage for the other, and he is free. 



THE GREEK GIRL AND THE BARBARIAN. 157 

Far. Be thanked, ye gods ! — My lather, O fare- 
well ! 
He is gone, and I shall never see him more ! 

[^Clasping her hands before her face, sobbing. 

Ing. \_Standing on a rock, looking, l., at his foUowers'] 
No violence ! Ho, how he runs ! and now 
He stof)s and cries again ! Poor, fearful fool ! 
It must be strange to fear. Now, by my troth, 
I should like to feel, for once, what 't is to fear ! — 
But the girl. [^Leaning forward'] Ha ! do I see right? 

[ To Parthenia] You weep ! 
Is that the happy temper that you boast? 

Par. Oh, I shall never see him more ! 

Ing. What ! have wc. 
For a silly old man, got now a foolish 
And timid, weeping girl? I have had enough 
Of tears. 

Par. Enough, indeed, since you but mock them. 
I will not — no, I '11 weep no more ! 
\_She quickly dries her eyes, and retires to the background. 

Ing. That's good; come, that looks well. 
She is a brave girl : she rules herself; and if 
She keep her word, we have made a good exchange : 
" I '11 weep no more." Aha ! I like the girl. 
And if — Ho ! whither goest thou ? 

\_To Parthenia, who is going off with two goblets. 

Par. Where should I go? to yonder brook, to 
cleanse the cups. 

Ing. No ; stay and talk with me. 

Par. I have duties to perform. [^Going. 

Ing. Stay — I command 3'ou, slave! 



158 THE GREEK GIRL AND THE BARBARIAN, 

Par. I um no slave ! your hostage, but no slave. 
I go to cleanse the cujis. [_Exit, l. 

Ing. Ho! here's a self-willed thing — here is a 
spirit ! \_Mimicking her. 

" I will not ! 1 am no slave ! I have duties to perform ! 
Take me for hostage ! " and she flung back her head 
As though she brought with her a ton of gold ! 
" I '11 weep no more ! " — Aha ! an impudent thing : 
She pleases me. I love to be opposed : 
I love my horse when he rears, my dogs when they 

snai-1, 
The mountain torrent, and the sea, when it flings 
Its foam uj) to the stars : such things as these 
Fill me Avith life and joy. Tame indolence 
Is living death ! the battle of the strong 
Alone is life ! 

[^During this speech, Parthenia has retitrmd 
with the Clips and some field flowers. She sits on 
a rock in front. 

Ing. Ah ! she is here again. [He ai^ptroaches her. 
What art thou making there ? 

Par. I? garlands. 

Ing. Garlands? 

\_Musing'\ It seems to me as I before had seen her, 
In a dream. How ! Ah, my brother ! — he who died 
A child — yes, that is it: m}^ little Folko. 
She has his dark brown hair, his sparkling Qya : 
Even the voice seems known again to me. 
I '11 not to sleep — I '11 talk to her. \_Returns to her. 
These you call garlands : 
And wherefore do you weave them? 



THE GREEK GIRL AND THE BARBARIAN. 159 

Par. For these cups. 

Ing. How ? 

Par. Is it not with you u custom ? With us 
At home, we love to intertwine with flowers 
Our cups and goblets. 

Ing. What use is such a plaything? 

Par. Use ? they are beautiful ; that is their use : 
The sight of them makes glad the eye ; their scent 
Refreshes, cheers. There ! 

[Presents him the garland and cup. 
Is not that, now, beautiful ? 

Ing. Ay, by the bright sun ! That dark green 
mixed uj) 
With the gay flowers ! Thou must teach our women 
To weave such garlands. 

Par. That is soon done : th}^ wife 
Herself shall soon weave wreaths as well as I. 

Ing. [Laughing heartily'] My wife ! my wife ! A 
woman, 
Dost thou say? 
I thank the gods, not I ! This is my Avife: 

[Pointing to his accoutrements. 
My spear, my shield, my sword. Let hini who Avill 
Waste cattle, slaves, or gold to buy a woman : 
Not I — not I ! 

Par. To buy a woman? — how? 

Ing. What is the matter? why dost look so 
strangely ? 

Par. How! did I hear aright? bargain for brides 
As you would slaves? — buy them like cattle? 

Ing. Well, I think a woman tit only for a slave : 



160 THE GREEK GIRL AND THE BARBARIAN. 

We follow our own customs, as you yours. 
How do you in your city there ? 

Par. Consult our hearts. 

Massilia's free-born daughters ai-e not sold, 
But bound by choice, with bands as light and sweet 
As these I hold. Love o\\\y buys us there. 

Ing. Marry for love ! What, do you love your 
husbands ? 

Par. Why marry else? 

Ing. Marry for love ! that 's strange ; 
I can not comprehend. I love my horse, 
My dogs, ni}'" brave companions — but no woman ! 
What dost thou mean by love? what is it, girl? 

Par. What is it? 'T is of all things the most 
sweet — 
The heaven of life — or, so my mother says : 
I never felt it. 

Ing. Never ? 

Par. No, indeed. [Looking at garland. 

Now look ! How beautiful ! Here would I Aveave 
Red flowers, if I had them. 

Ing. Yonder there. 

In that thick wood they grow. 

Par. How sayest thou ? [^Looking off. 

Oh, what a lovely red ! Go, pluck me some. 

Ing. \_Starting at the suggestion'] I go for thee ! the 
master serve the slave ! 

\_Gazing on her with increasing interest. 
And yet, why not? I '11 go ; the poor child 's tired. 

Par. Dost thou hesitate ? 

Ing. No ; thou shalt have the flowers, 



THE GREEK GIRL AND THE BARBARIAN. 161 

As fresh and dewy as the bush aifords. \_CToes off, R. 
Far. [^Holding out the icreath'] I nevei- yet succeeded 
half 80 well : 
It will be charming ! — Charming? and for whom? 
Here among savages ! No mother here 
Looks smiling on it : I am alone, forsaken ! — 
But no, I '11 weep no more ! No, none shall say I fear! 

He-enter Ingomar ivith flowers for Parthenia. 

Ing. [^AsiJe"] The little Folko, when in his play he 
wanted 
Flowers or fruit, would so cry, " Bring them to me ; 
Quick ! I will have them : these I will have or none ! " 
Till somehow he compelled me to obey him : 
And she, with the same spirit, the same fire — 
Yes, there is much of the bright child in her. 
Well, she shall be a little brother to me. — 
There are the flowers. \_Ite hands her the flowers. 

Par. Thanks, thanks ! Oh, thou hast broken them 
Too short off in the stem ! 

[She throws some of them on the ground. 

Ing. Shall I go and get thee more? 

Par. No, these will do. 

Ing. Tell me now about your home : I will sit here, 
Near thee. 

Par. Not there : thou art crushing all the flowers ! 

Ing. [Seating himself at herfeef] Well, well; I Avill 
sit here, then. And now tell me, 
What is your name? 

Par. Parthenia. 

Ing. Parthenia ! 

D. S.— 14. 



162 THE GREEK GIRL AND THE BARBARIAN. 

A pretty name! And now, Purthenia, tell me 
How that which you call love grows in the soul; 
And what love is. 'T is strange, but in that word 
There's something seems like yonder ocean — fath- 
omless. 

Par. How shall I say? Love comes, my mother 
says. 
Like flowers in the night — reach rac those violets — 
It is a flame a single look will kindle, 
But not an ocean quench. 
Fostered by dreams, excited by each thought, 
Love is a star from heaven, that j^oints the way 
And leads us to its home — a little sjjot 
In earth's drj'' desert, where the soul may rest — 
A grain of gold in the dull sand of life - 
A foretaste of Elysium : but when. 
Weary of this world's woes, the immortal gods 
Flew to the skies, with all their richest gifts, 
Love stayed behind, self-exiled for man's sake. 

Ing. I never jQi heard aught so beautiful ! 
But still I comprehend it not. 

Par. Nor I ; 

For I have never felt it : yet I know 
A song my mother sang, an ancient song, 
That plainly speaks of love, at least to me : 
How goes it? Stay — \_SloicIy, as trying to recollect. 

What love ?.s, if thou icouldst be taught, 

Thy heart must teach alone, — 
Two souls with but a single thought, 

Two hearts that beat as one. 



THE GREEK GIRL AND THE BARBARIAN. 163 

And whence comes love? Like morning's light, 

It comes icithout thy call : 
And how dies love? A spirit bright, 

Love never dies at all. 

And when — and ichen — 

[^Hesitating, as unable to continnc. 
Ing. Go on. 
Par. I know no more. 
Ing. [Impatiently'] Try, try. 
Par. I can not now ; but at some other time 
I may remember. 

Ing. [Somewhat authoritatively'] Noav go on, I say! 
Par. [Sjmnging up in alar7n] Not now ; I want 
more roses for my wreath : 
Yonder they grow ; I will fetch them for myself 
Take care of all m^^ flowers and the wreath. 

[Throws the flowers into Ingomar's lap and runs off. 
Ing. [After a pause, without changing his position, 
speaking to himself in deep abstraction] 

Two souls with but a single thought, 
Two hearts that beat as one. 

Curtain. 



COSTUMES. 

Ingomar. — Leather breastplate, with copper bosses; brown, 
loose shirt; wolf's skin hung to back ; helmet, shield, spear; 
fleshings and sandals. 

Partiienia. — -White merino dress, with Grecian trimming; 
amber Gi-ecian drapery and trimming. 



164 VENTIDIUS AND THE EMPEROR. 



VENTIDIUS AND THE EMPEEOK. 



From Dryden^s All for Love. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS, 

Marc Antony, Emperor of Egypt. 
Ventidius, his General. 
Two Roman Gkntlemen. 



Prologue. 

The somewhat lengthy dialogue which we are 
about to render for your entertainment, is an extract 
from Dryden's best ti'agedy, entitled All for Love. 
The scene is laid in the Temple of Isis, at Alexandria, 
and the characters represented are Marc. Antony and 
Ventidius, his lieutenant, than whom 

A braver Roman never drew a sioord ; 

Firm to his prince, but as a friend, not slave. 

Antony, bound in the silken fetters of Cleopatra's 
love, 

Shrunk from the vast extent of all his honors, 

had commanded that none should be admitted to his 
presence but the Egyptian Queen. It was Antonj-'s 
birthday, and Cleopatra had proclaimed that labor 



VENTIDIUS AND THE EMPEROR. 165 

should ceatfe, tmd thiit Eomiins and Egyptians should 
give themselves over to general rejoicings. At this 
juncture Ventidius makes his appearance. He holdly 
aceosts one of the queen's attendants: 

Go tell thj queen, 
Ventidius is arrived to end her charms. 

He makes his way to Antony, regardless of orders 
to the contrary, and engages him in the scene Avhich 
our actors will attempt to rehearse before you — a 
scene which Dr3'den himself preferred to any thing 
else he had written, of the dramatic kind. 



Scene: — The Temple of Isis, at Alexandria. Enter 
Yentidius a7id tico Gentlemen of Marc Antony. 

2d Gent. The Emperor approaches, and commands, 
On pain of death, that none presume to stay. 
l5^ Gent. I dai'e not disobey him. 

[E.veunt the two Gentlemen. 
Vent. Well, I dare : 
But I '11 observe him first, unseen, and find 
Which way his humor drives : the rest I '11 venture. 

[ Withdraws. 

Enter Antony, walking icith a disturbed motion before 
he speaks. 

Ant. They tell me 'tis my birthday; and I'll 
keep it 
With double pomp of sadness. 



166 VENTIDIUS AND THE EMPEROR. 

'T is what the day deserves which gave me breath. 
Why was I raised the meteor of the world, 
Hung in tlie skies, and blazing as I traveled, 
Till all my fires were spent, and then cast downward, 
To be trod out by Caesar ? 

Vent. \_Aside] On my soul, 
'T is mournful — wondrous mournful ! 

Ant. Count thj^ gains. 
Now, Antony, Avouldst thou be born for this ? 
Glutton of fortune, thy devouring youth 
Has starved thy wanting age. 

Vent. \_Aside] How sorrow shakes him! 
So now the tempest tears him up by th' roots, 
And on the ground extends the noble ruin. 

Ant. [^Having thrown himself down'] Lie there, thou 
shadow of an emperor ! 
The place thou pressest on thy mother earth, 
Is all thy empire now : now it contains thee : 
Some few days hence, and then 'twill bo too large; 
When thou 'rt conti-acted in thy narrow urn. 
Shrunk to a few cold ashes : then Octavia — 
(For Cleopatra will not live to see it,) 
Octavia then will have thee all her own, 
And bear thee in her Avidowed hand to Csesar ; 
Caesar will weep — the crocodile will weep — 
To see his rival of the universe 

Lie still and peaceful thei-e. I'll think no more on't. 
Give me some music ; look that it be sad : 
I '11 sooth my melancholy, till I swell 
And burst myself with sighing. \^Soft music. 

'T is somewhat to my humor. Stay ! I fancy 



VENTIDIUS AND THE EMPEROR. 167 

I 'm now turned wild, a commonei* of nature ; 

Of all forsaken, and forsaking all ; 

Live in a shady forest's sj^lvan scene ; 

Stretched at my length beneath some blasted oak, 

I lean my head upon the mossy bark, 

And look just of a piece, as I grew from it : 

My uncombed locks, matted like mistletoe, 

Hang o'er my hoary face ; a murmuring brook 

Euns at my foot. 

Vent. l_Aside'] Methinks I fancy 
Mj'-self there, too. 

Ant. The herd come jumping by me, 
And fearless quench their thirst, while I look on. 
And take me for their fellow-citizen. 
More of this image, more; it lulls my thoughts. 

\^Soft music, again. 

Vent. [^AsicWl I must disturb him ; I can hold no 

longer. [Stands before Mm. 

Ant. [Starting u}')] Art thou Ventidius? 

Vent. Are you Antony? 
I 'm liker what I was, than you to him 
I left you last. 

Ant. I 'm angry. 

Vent. So am I, 

Ant. I would be private : leave me. 

Vent. Sir, I love you ; 
And therefore will not leave you. 

Ant. Will not leave me? 
Where have j^ou learned that answer? Who am I? 

Vent, ^iy emperor; the man I love next heaven. 
If I said more, I think 'twere scarce a sin : 



168 VENTIDIUS AND THE EMPEROR. 

You 're all that 's good and godlike. 

Ant. All that 's wretched. 
You will not leave me, then ? 

Vent. 'T was too presuming 
To say I would not ; but I dare not leave you : 
And 't is unkind in 3'ou to chide me hence 
So soon, Avhen I so far have come to see you. 

Ant. Now thou hast seen me, art thou satisfied ? 
For, if a friend, thou hast beheld enough ; 
And, if a foe, too much. 

Vent. Look, Emperor, this is no common dew : 

[ Weeping. 
I have not wejjt these forty years : but now 
My mother comes afresh into my ej-es ; 
I can not help her softness. 

Ant. By Heaven, he weeps ! poor, good old man, 
he weeps ! 
The big round drops course one another doAvn 
Tiie furrows of his cheeks. Stop them, Ventidius, 
Or I shall blush to death : they set my shame, 
That caused them, full before me. 

Vent. I '11 do my best. 

Ant. Sure, there 's contagion in the tears of friends : 
See, I have caught it, too. Believe me, 't is not 
For my own griefs, but thine — nay, father ! 

Vent. Emperor ! 

Ant. Emperor ! why, that 's the style of victory : 
The conquering soldier, red with unfelt wounds, 
Salutes his general so ; but never more 
Shall that sound reach my ears. 

Vent. I Avarrant you. 



VENTIDIUS AND THE EMPEROR. 169 

Ant. Actium, Actium ! Oh! — 

Vent. It fits too near you. 

Ant. Here, here it lies : a lump of lead by day, 
And, in my short, distracted, nightly slumbers, 
The hag that rides my dreams — 

Vent. Out with it ; give it vent. 

Ant. Urge not my shame : 
1 lost a battle ! 

Vent. So has Julius done. 

Ant. Thou favor'st me, and speak'st not half thou 
think'st : 
For Julius fought it out, and lost it fairly ; 
But Antony — 

Vent. Nay, stop not. 

Ant. Anton}^ 
(Well, thou wilt have it,) like a coward, fled ! 
Fled while his soldiers fought; fled fii'st, Ventidius ! 
Thou long'st to curse me, and I give thee leave : 
I know thou cam'st prepared to rail. 

Vent. I did. 

Ant. I'll help thee. I have been a man, Yentidius. 

Vent. Yes, and a brave one; but — 

A7\t. I know thy meaning: 
But I have lost m}^ reason ; have disgraced 
The name of soldier with inglorious ease: 
In the full vintage of my flowing honors, 
Sate still, and saw it pressed by other hands. 
Fortune came smiling to my youth, and wooed it; 
And purple greatness met my ripened years. 
When first I came to empire, I was borne 
On tides of people, crowding to my triumphs ; 

D. S.-15. 



170 VENTIDIUS AND THE EMPEROR. 

The wish of nations ; and the willing world 

Received me as its pledge of future peace : 

I was so great, so hapj^y, so beloved, 

Fate could not ruin me ; till I took pains 

And worked against my fortune, chid her from me, 

And turned her loose ; yet still she came again : 

My careless days, and my luxurious nights, 

At length have wearied her, and now she 's gone — 

Gone, gone ; divorced forever ! Help me, soldier, 

To curse this madman, this industrious fool. 

Who labored to be wretched ! prithee, curse me I 

Vent No. 

Ant. Why? 

Ve7it. You are too sensible already 
Of what you 've done, too conscious of your failings ; 
And, like a scorpion, whipped by others first 
To fury, sting yourself in mad revenge. 
I would bring balm and pour it in your Avounds, 
Cure your distempered mind, and heal your fortunes. 

Ant. I know thou would'st. 

Ve7it. I will. 

Ant. Ha, ha, ha, ha ! 

Vent. You laugh. 

Ant. I do, to sec officious love 
Give cordials to the dead. 

Vent. You would be lost, then. 

Ant. I am. 

Vent. I say you are not. Try your fortune. 

Ayit. I have, to th' utmost. Dost thou think me 
desperate 
Without just cause ? No ; when I found all lost 



VENTIDIUS AND THE EMPEROR. 171 

Beyond repair, I hid me from the Avorld, 
And learned to scorn it here ; which now I do 
So heartily, I think it is not worth 
The cost of keeping. 

Vent. Caesar thinks not so: 
He 'II thank you for the gift ho could not take. 
You would be killed, like Tully, would you ? Do : 
Hold out your throat to Csesar, and die tamely. 

A7it. No, I can kill myself; and so resolve. 

Ve7it. I can die with you, too, when time shall 
serve ; 
But fortune calls ujjon us now to live, 
To fight, to conquer. 

Ant. Sure thou dream'st, Yentidius. 

Vent. No, 't is you dream ; you sleep away your 
hours 
In desperate sloth, miscalled philosophy. 
Ui), up, for honor's sake ! twelve legions wait you. 
And long to call you chief By painful journeys, 
I led them, patient both of heat and hunger, 
Down from the Parthian marshes to the Nile. 
'T will do you good to see their sun-burned faces, 
Their scarred cheeks, and chapped hands : there 's 

virtue in them : 
They '11 sell those mangled limbs at dearer rates 
Than j'on trim bands can bu}'-. 

A7it. Where left j^ou them ? 

Vent. I said, in lower Syria. 

Ant. Bring them hither; 
There inny be life in these. 

Vent. They will not come. 



172 VENTIDIUS AND THE EMPEROR. 

A7it. Why didst thou mock my hopes with prom- 
ised aids, 
To double my despair? They are mutinous. 

Vent. Most firm and loyal. 

Ant. Yet they will not march 
To succor me — O trifle r ! 

Vent. They petition 
You would make haste to head them. 

Ant. I am besieged. 

Vent. There is but one way shut up. How came 
I hither? 

Ant. I will not stir. 

Vent. They would, perhaps, desire 
A better reason. 

Ant. I have never used 
My soldiers to demand a reason of 
My actions. Why did they refuse to march ? 

Vent. They said they would not fight for Cleopatra. 

Ant. What was it they said ? 

Vent. They said they would not fight for Cleopatra. 
Why should they fight, indeed, to make her conquer, 
And make you more a slave? to gain you kingdoms, 
AYhich, for a kiss, at your next midnight feast. 
You'll sell to her? then she new names her jewels, 
And calls this diamond such or such a tax ; 
Each pendant in her ear shall bo a pi'ovince. 

Ant. Ventidius, I allow your tongue free license 
On all my other faults ; but, on your life, 
No word of Cleopatra ! she deserves 
More worlds than I can lose. 

Vent. Behold, you powers, 



VENTIDIUS AND THE EMPEROR. 173 

To Avhoni 3-011 have intrusted humankind ! 
See Europe, Afric, Asia put in balance, 
And all weighed down by one light, worthless woman ! 
I think the gods are Antonies, and give, 
Like prodigals, this nether world away 
To none but wasteful hands. 
Ant. You grow jDresumptuous. 
Ve7it. I take the privilege of plain love to speak. 
Ant. Plain love! — plain arrogance! plain inso- 
lence ! 
Thy men are cowards ! thou, an envious traitor, 
Who, under seeming honesty, hath vented 
The burden of thy rank o'erflowing gall ! 
Oh, that thou wert my equal ! great in arms 
As the first Caesar was, that I might kill thee 
Without a stain to honor ! 

Vent. You may kill me : 
You have done more already — called me traitor ! 
Ant. Art thou not one? 
Vent. For showing you yourself, 
Which none else durst have done? But had I been 
That name, which I disdain to sjDeak again, 
I needed not have sought your abject fortunes ; 
Come to partake your fate ; to die with you. 
What hindered me to 've led my conquering eagles 
To fill Octavia's bands? I could have been 
A traitor then — a glorious, happy traitor — 
And not have been so called. 
Ant. Forgive me, soldier! 
I 've been too passionate. 

Vent. You thought me false ; 



174 VENTIDIUS AND THE EMPEROR. 

Thought my old age betra^^ed you. Kill me, sir ; 
Pra}', kill me : j'et you need not; your unkindness 
Has left your sword no work. 

Ant. I did not think so ; 
I said it in my rage ; prithee, forgive me : 
Why did'st thou tempt my anger, by discovery 
Of what I would not hear ? 

Vent. 'No prince but you 
Could merit that sincerity I used, 
Nor durst another man have ventured it : 
But you, ere love misled your wandering eye, 
Were sure the chief and best of human race; 
Framed in the verj^ pride and boast of nature ; 
So perfect, that the gods who formed you Avondered 
At their own skill, and cried, "A lucky hit 
Has mended our design." Their envy hindered. 
Else you had been immortal, and a pattern. 
When Heaven would Avork for ostentation's sake, 
To copy out again. 

Ant. But Cleopatra — 
Go on ; for I can bear it now. 

Vent. No more. 

Ant. Thou darest not trust my jiassion, but thou 
mayest : 
Thou only lovest; the rest have flattered me. 

Vent. Heaven's blessing on your heart for that 
kind word ! 
May I believe you love me? Speak again. 

Ant. Indeed I do. Speak this, and this, and this. 

[^Hugging him. 
Thy praises Avere unjust, but I '11 deserve them, 



VENTIDIUS AND THE EMPEROR. 175 

And yet mend all. Do with me Avhat thou wilt ; 
Lead me to victory ; thou knowest the waj*. 

Vent. And will you leave this — 

Ant. Prithee, do not curse her, 
And I will leave her ; though, Heaven knows, I love 
Beyond life, conquest, empire — all but honor : 
But I will leave her. 

Ve7it. That 's my royal master ! 
And shall we fight? 

Ant. I warrant thee, old soldier, 
Thou shalt behold me once again in iron ; 
And at the head of our old troops, that beat 
The Parthians, cry aloud, " Come, follow me ! " 

Vent. Oh, now I hear my Emperor ! in that word 
Octavius fell. Gods, let me see that day ! 
And if I have ten years behind, take all : 
I 'II thank you for the exchange. 

Ant. Oh, Cleopatra ! 

Vent. Again ! 

Ant. I 've done ; in that last sigh she went. 
Cajsar shall know what 'tis to force a lover 
From all he holds most dear. 

Vent. Methinks you breathe 
Another soul; 3'our looks are more divine; 
You speak a hero, and you move a god. 

Ant. Oh, thou hast fired me ! My soul is up in 
arms, 
And mans each part about me ! Once again 
That noble eagerness of fight has seized me ; 
That eagerness with which I darted upward 
To Cassius' camp. In vain the steepy hill 



176 VENTIDIUS AND THE EMPEROR. 

Opposed my way ; in vain a war of spears 
Sung round my head, and planted all my shield : 
1 won the trenches, while my foremost men 
Lagged on the plain below. 

Vent. Ye gods, ye gods, 
For such another hour ! 

Ant. Come on, my soldier ! 
Our hearts and arms are still the same. I long 
Once more to meet our foes ; that thou and I, 
Like Time and Death, marching before our troops, 
Ma}^ taste fate to them; mow them out a passage. 
And entei'ing Avhere the foremost squadrons yield, 
Begin the noble harvest of the field. l^Exeunt. 



COSTUMES. 

Makc Antony. — Magnificent scarlet and gold Roman uniform, 

and toga. 
Ventidius. — Roman generals armor. 



WILLIAM TELL. 177 



WILLIAM TELL. 



^ §rama, in ^\}xu ^ds. 



Abridged from J. S. Knowles's William Tell. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

AUSTRIANS. 

Gesler, Governor of the Waldstaetten, 
Sarnem, his Lieutenant. 

RODOLPH, '\ 

LuTOLD, V his Castellans. 

Gerard, J 

Officers, Archers, Soldiers, etc. 

SWISS. 

William Tell. 

Albert, his son. 

Melcthal, ErnV s father. 

Erni, ~\ 

FiiRST, v patriots in league with Tell: 

Verner, j 

Michael, ~\ 

Pierre, I inhabitants of Altorf. 

Theodore, J 

Emma, TelVs wife. 

Savoyards, Burghers, Mountaineers, Women, etc. 

Scene: — Altorf and the neighboring mountains. 



178 WILLIAM TELL. 

ACT I. 

Scene I : — The Field of Griltli ; a Lake and Mount- 
ains. Enter Tell with a long bow. 

Tell. Ye crags and peaks, I 'm with you once again ! 
I hold to you the hands j'ou first beheld. 
To show they still are free. Methinks I hear 
A spirit in jovly echoes answer me, 
And bid your truant welcome home again. 
Hail ! hail ! Oh, sacred forms, how proud you look ! 
How high you lift your heads into the sky! 
How huge you are, how might}'', and how free ! 
How do you look, for all your bared brows. 
More gorgeously majestical than kings, 
"Whose loaded coronets exhaust the mine! 
Ye are the things that tower, that shine ; whose smile 
Makes glad ; whose frown is terrible ; whose forms, 
Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear 
Of awe divine ; whose subject never kneels 
In mocker}', because it is your boast 
To keep him free. Ye guards of libert}'-, 
I 'm with you once again ! I call to you 
With all my voice ; I hold my hands to you, 
To show they still ai-e free ; I rush to you, 
As though I could embrace you. 

Erni. IWithoKf] William! William! 

Tell. \_Looks ouf] Here, Erni, here ! 

Enter Erni. 

Erni. Thou 'rt sure to keep the time, 
That comest before the hour. 



WILLIAM TELL. 179 

Tell. The hour, my friend, 
Will soon be here. Oh, when Avill liberty 
Be liere? My Brni, that 's my thought, which still 
I find beside. Scaling yonder peak, 
1 saw an eagle wheeling near its brow: 
0"er the abyss, his broad, expanding wings 
Lay calm and motionless upon the air, 
As if he floated thei*e without their aid, — 
By the sole act of his unlorded will. 
That buoyed him proudly up. Instinctively 
I strung my bow ; yet kept he rounding still 
His airy circles, as in the delight 
Of measuring the ample range beneath. 
And round about, absorbed, he heeded not 
The death that threatened him. I could not shoot! 
'T was liberty ! I turned the shaft aside. 
And let him soar away ! 

Verner. [TFiYAowf] Tell! Tell! 

Enter Verner. 

Tell. Here. Verner ! 
Furst. [Withoxiq Tell! 

Enter Furst. 

Tell. Here, friends ! well met. Do we go on ? 

Yer. AVe do. 

Tell. Then j^oii can reckon on the friends you 

named ? 
Yer. On every man of them. 
Furst. And I on mine. 



180 WILLIAM TELL. 

Erni. Not one I sounded but did rate his blood 
As water in the cause. Then fix the day 
Before Ave part. 

Ver. No, Erni ; rather wait 
For some new outrage to amaze and rouse 
The common mind, which does not brood so much 
On wrongs gone by, as it doth rankle with 
The sense of present ones. 

Tell. \_To Verner] I wish with Erni, 
But I think with thee. Yet, when I ask myself 
On whom the wrong shall light for which we wait. 
Whose vineyard they '11 u^Jroot, whose flocks the}" 'II 

ravage, 
"Whose threshold they '11 profane, whose hearth pol- 
lute. 
Whose roof they'll fire — when this I ask myself, 
And think upon the blood of pious sons, 
The tears of venerable fathers, and 
The shrieks of pious mothers, fluttering round their 

spoiled 
And ncstless young — I almost take the part 
Of generous indignation, that o'erboils 
At such expense to wait on sober prudence. 

Furst. Yet it is best. 

Tell. On that we 're all agreed. 
Who fears the issue, when the day shall come? 

Ver. Not I. 

Furst. Nor I. 

Frni. Nor I. 

Tell. I 'm not the man 
To mar this harmony — Nor I, no more 



WILLIAM TELL. 181 

Than any of you. You commit to me 

The wiirning of the rest: remember, then, 

My dagger sent to any one of 3'ou — 

As time may pret?s — is word enough ; the others 

I '11 see myself. Our course is clear. Dear Erni, 

Eemember me to Melcthal. Furst, provide 

"What store you can of arms. Do you the same. 

[ Jb Erni and Verner. 
The next aggression of the tyrant is 
The downfall of his power ! — Remember me 
To Melcthal, Erni, — to my flxther. Tell him 
He has a son that was not born to him. 
Farewell ! When next we meet upon this theme, 
All Switzerland shall witness what we do. 

[^Exeunt. 

Scene II : — Tell's Cottage on the right of a mountain ; 
a distant vieiv of a lake, backed by mountains of 
stupendous height, their tops covered with S7iow, 
and lighted at the very -points by the rising sun, 
the rest of the distance being yet in shade ; on one 
side, a vineyard. Enter Emma, from the cottage. 

Emma, (c.) Oh, the fresh morning! Heaven's kind 
messenger. 
That never empty-handed comes to those 
Who know to use its gifts. Praise be to Him 
Who loads it still, and bids it constant run 
The errand of His bounty! — Praise be to Him! 
AVe need His care that on the mountain's cliff 
Lodge by the storm, and can not lift our eyes. 



182 WILLIAM TELL. 

But piles on piles of everlasting snows, 
O'erhanging us, remind us of His mercy. 

Albert appears on an eminence, l. u. e. 

Alh. My mother ! 

Emma. Albert ! 

Alb. [^Descending and approaching'E^i^A] Bless thee ! 

Emma. Bless thee, Albert ! 
How early were you up ? 

Alb. Before the sun. 

Emma. Ay. strive with him. He never lies a-bed 
When it is time to rise. He ever is 
The constant'st Avorkman, that goes through his task, 
And shows us how to work, by setting to 't 
AVith smiling face; for labor's light as ease 
To him that toils with cheerfulness. Be like 
The sun. 

Alb. (c.) What you would have me like, I '11 be like, 
As far as Avill, to labor joined, can make me. 

Emma. Well said, my boy ! Knelt you when you 
got UJ) 
To-day ? 

Alb. I did ; and do so every day. 

Emma. I know you do. And think you, when 
30U kneel, 
To whom you kneel? 

Alb. To Him who made me, mother. 

Emma. You have been early up, when I, that 
played 
The sluggard in comparison, am up 



WltLIAM TELL. 183 

Full early; for the highest peaks alone 
As yet behold the sun. Now tell me what 
You ought to think on, Avhen you see the sun 
So shining on the j^eak ? 

Alb. That as the peak 
Feels not tlie pleasant sun, or feels it least, 
So they who highest stand in fortune's smile 
Are gladdened by it least, or not at all. 

Emma. And what 's the profit you should turn 
this to? 

Alb. Eather to place my good in what I have, 
Than think it worthless, wishing to have more : 
For more is not more happiness so oft 
As less. 

Emma. I 'm glad you husband what you learn : 
That is the lesson of content, my son ; 
He who finds which, has all ; who misses, nothing. ' 

Alb. Content is a good thing. 

Emma. A thing the good 
Alone can profit by. 

Alb. My father 's good. 

Emma. What say'st thou, boy? 

Alb. I say, rny father 's good. 

Emma. Yes, he is good. What then? 

Alb. I do not think 
He "is content — I 'm sure he 's not content ; 
Nor Avould I be content, were I a man. 
And Gesler seated on the rock of Altorf! 
A man may lack content and yet be good. 

Emma. I did not say all good men find content. 
I would be busy : leave me. 



184 WILLIAM TELL. 

Alb. You 'rc not angry ? 

Emma. No, no, my boy. 

Alb. You '11 kiss nie? 

Emma. Will I not? 
The time will come j^ou will not ask your mother 
To kiss 3'ou. 

Alb. Never! 

Emma. Not when j' ou 're a man ? 

Alb. I would not be a man to see that time : 
I 'd rather die, now that I am a child, 
Than live to be a man and not love you ! 

Emma, (c.) Live — live to be a man, and love your 
mother! 

[They embrace. Albert eiiters cottage, r. 
Why should my heart sink ? 't is for this we rear them ; 
Cherish their tiny limbs ; pine if a thorn 
But mar their tender skin ; gather them to us 
Closer than miser hugs his bag of gold ; 
Bear more for them than slave, who makes his flesh 
A casket for the rich, purloined gem — 
To send them forth into a Avintr}^ world, 
To brave its flaws and tempests ! — They must go : 
Far better, then, they go with hearty will ; 
Be that my consolation. Nestling as 
He is, he is the making of a bird 
Will own no cowering wing. 'T was fine — 't was fine 
To see my eaglet on the verge o' the nest, 
Rufiling himself at sight of the huge gulf 
He feels anon he '11 have the wing to soar! 

\_Ee-enter Alsert from cottage, loith boiv, arrows, 
and a target, which he sets up near r. u. e. 



WILLIAM TELL. 185 

What have you there ? 

Alb. My bow and arrows, mother. 

Emma. When will you use them like your father, 

boy? 
Alb. Some time, I hope. 
Emma. You brag ! There 's not an archer 
In all Helvetia can compare Avith him. 

Alb. But I 'm his son ; and when I am a man, 
I may be like him. Mother, do I brag. 
To think I some time may be like my father? 
If so, then is it he that teaches me ; 
For ever, as I wonder at his skill, 
He calls me boy, and says I must do more 
Ere I become a man. 

Emyna. May you be such 
A man as he ! — if Heaven wills, better ! — I '11 
Not quarrel with its work ; yet 'twill content me, 
If you are ovAy such a man. 

Alb. I '11 show you 
How I can shoot. \_Shoots] Look, mother ! there 's 

within 
An inch ! 

Emma. Oh, fie ! it wants a hand. 

[^Going into the cottage, r. 
Alb. A hand 's 
An inch for me. I '11 hit it yet. Now for it ! 

\_Shoots again. While he continues to shoot, the 
light gradually approaches the base of the mount- 
ains in the distance, and spreads itself over the 
lake and valley. 

D. S.-16. 



186 • WILLIAM TELL. 

Enter Tell, l., watching Albert some time in silence. 

Tell. \_Aside'\ Tluit 's scarce a miss, that comes so 
near the mark. 
Well aimed, young arclier ! With what ease he draws 
The bow ! To see those sinews, who 'd believe 
Sucli vigor lodged in them ? Well aimed again ! 
There plays the skill will thin the chamois' herd, 
And bring the lammergeir from the cloud 
To earth. Perhaps do greater feats — perhaps 
Make man its quarry, when he dares to tread 
Upon his fellow-man ! That little arm, 
His mother's palm can span, may help, anon. 
To pull a sinewy tyrant from his seat. 
And from their chains a prostrate people lift 
To liberty ! I 'd be content to die, 
Living to see that day! — [^Alond] What, Albert! 

Alb. (c.) Ah! 
My father ! [Running to Tell, who embraces him. 

Emma. [Rxuining from the cottage, r.] William ! — 
Welcome, welcome, William ! 
I did not look for you till noon. 
Jo}' is double joy 

That comes before the time : it is a debt 
Paid ere 'tis due, which fills the owner's heart 
With gratitude, and yet 'tis but his own. 
And are you well ? And has the chase pi-oved good? 
How has it fared with you? Come in; I 'm sure 
You want refreshment. 

Tell. No ; I shared 
A hei-dsman's meal, upon whose lonely chalet 



WILLIAM TELL. 187 

I chanced to light. I 'vc had bad sport. My track 

Lay with the wind, Avhich to tlie startlish game 

Betrayed nie still. One only prize ; and that 

I gave mine humble host. 

[Tb Albert, trAo has returned to his practice'] You raise 

the bow 
Too fast. Bring it slowly to the eye. [Albert shoots. 
You 've missed. 

How often have you hit the mark to-day ? 
Alb. Not once yet. 

Tell. You 're not steady ; I perceived 
You wavered now. Stand firm ! Let every limb 
Be braced as marble, and as motionless. 
Stand like the sculptor's statue on the gate 
.Of Altorf, that looks life, yet neither breathes 
Nor stirs. [Albert shoots'] That 's better ! 

Einma. William, William ! Oh ! 
To be the parents of a boy like that! 
Why speak you not? and wherefore do j^ou sigh? 
What 's in your heart, to keep the transport out 
That fills up mine, when looking on our child. 
Till it o'erflows mine eye? [Albert shoots. 

Tell. You 've missed again ! 
Dost see the mark ? Rivet your eye to it ! 
There let it stick, fast as the arrow w^ould, 
Could you but send it there. 

Einma. Why, William, do n't 
You answer me ? [Albert shoots. 

Tell, (c.) Again ! How would you fare. 
Suppose a wolf should cross your path, "and you 
Alone with but your bow, and only lime 



188 WILLIAM TELL. 

To fix a single arrow ! 'T w^ould not do 
To miss the wolf! Yoii said, the other daj^, 
Were you a man, you 'd not let Gesler live. 
'Twas easy to say that. Suppose jon, now, 
Your life or his dejjended on that shot! — 
Take care! that's Gresler ! — Now for liberty! 
Eight to the tyrant's heart ! [Albert shoots'] Well 

done, my boy ! 
Come here! — -Now, Emma, I will answer you: 
Do I not love you ? do I not love our child ? 
Is not that cottage dear to me, where I 
Was born? How many acres would I give 
That little vineyard for, which I have watched 
And tended since I was a child ! Those crags 
And peaks — what spired city would I take 
To live in, in exchange for them? — Yet what 
Are these to me? What is this boy to me? 
What art thou, Emma, to me, when a breath 
Of Gesler's can take all? [^Crosses, r. 

[ While Tell speaks these last lines, Emma draics 

Albert fondly to her. 
Emma. Oh, William ! 
Tell. Emma, let the boy alone; 
Do n't clasp him so — 't will soften him. Go, sir : 
Sec if the valley sends us visitors 
To-day. Some friend, perchance, may need thy 

guidance. 
Away ! [^E.iit Albert, l.] He 's better from thee, 

Emma : the time 
Is come, a mother on her breast should fold 
Her arms, as they had done with such endearments ; 



WILLIAM TELL. 189 

And bid her children go from her to hunt 

For danger, which will presently hunt them, — 

The less to heed it. 

Emma, (c.) William, you are right: 
The task you set me I will try to do. 
I would not live mj^self to be a slave — 
I would not be the dam of one ! 
No ! woman as I am, I would not, William ! 
Then choose my course for me : whate'er it is, 
I will say ay, and do it, too : suppose 
To dress my little stri2)ling for the war, 
And take him by the hand to lead him to 't ! 
Yes, I would do it at thy bidding, William, 
Without a tear : I say that I would do it — 
But, now I only talk of doing it, 
I can't help shedding one ! 

Tell. When I Avedded thee, 
The land w^as free. Oh, with what pride I used 
To walk these hills, and look up to my God, 
And bless Him that it was so ! It was free — 
From end to end, from cliff to lake 't was free ! 
Free as our torrents are that leap our rocks, 
And plow oiir valleys without asking leave ; 
Or as our peaks, that wear their caps of snow 
In very presence of the regal sun ! 
How happy was I in it then ! I loved 
Its very storms ! Yes, Emma, I have sat 
In mj boat at night, when, midway o'er the lake. 
The stai's went out, and down the mountain gorge 
The wind came roaring : I have sat and eyed 
The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled 



190 WILLIAM TELL. 

To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head, 

And think I had no master save his own. 

You know the jutting cliff, round which a track 

Up hither winds, whose base is but the brow 

To such another one, with scant}' room 

For two abreast to pass? O'ertaken there 

By the mountain blast, I 've laid me flat along, 

And while gust followed gust more furiously, 

As if to sweep me o'er the horrid brink : 

And I have thought of other lands, whose storms 

Are summer flaws to those of mine, and just 

Have wished me there — the thought that mine was 

free, 
Has checked that Avish, and I have raised my head, 
And cried in thralldom to that furious wind, 
Blow on ! This is the land of liberty! [^Crosses, R. 

Emma. I almost see thee on that fearful pass ; 
And yet, so seeing thee, I have a feeling 
Forbids me wonder that thou didst so. 

Tell. 'T is 
A feeling must not breathe where Gesler breathes, 
But may within these arms. List, Emma, list! 
A league is made to pull the tja-ant down, 
E'en from his seat upon the rock of Altorf! 
Four hearts have staked their blood upon the cast, 
And mine is one of them ! 

Emma. I did not start : — 
Tell me more, William. 

Tell. I will tell thee all — 

Alb. IWithouf] Oh, father! 

Old Melcthal. [Witlwut] Tell! Tell !— William ! 



WILLIAM TELL. 191 



Emma. Do n't 3^011 know 
That voice ? 



Fnter Old Melcthal, l., hlincl, led by Albert. 

Old M. W h ere art thou, Wi 1 1 i am ? 

Tell. Who is it? 

Emma. Do you not know him? 

Tell. No ! — It can not be 
The voice of Melcthal ! 

Alh. Father, it is Melcthal. 

Emma. What ails you. Tell? 

Alb. Oh, father, speak to him ! 

Emma. What passion shakes you thus? 

Tell. His eyes — where are they? — 
Melcthal has eyes. 

Old M. Tell! Tell! 

Tell. 'T is Melcthal's voice : 
Where are his ej^es ? Have the}' put out his ej'es? 
Has Gesler turned the little evening of 
The old man's life to night before its time? 
To such black night as sees not with the day 
All round it ! Father, speak ! Pronounce the name 
Of Gesler ! 

Old M. Gesler ! 

Tell, (c.) Gesler has torn out 
The old man's eyes! — Support thy mother! — Erni — 
Where 's Erni ? Where 's thy son ? Is he alive ? 
And are his father's eyes torn out? 

Old M. He lives, my William. 
But knows it not. 



192 WILLIAM TELL. 

Tell. When he shall know it ! — Heavens ! 
When he shall know it ! — I am not thy son, 
Yet — 

Emma. \_Alarmed at his increasing vehemence'] Wil- 
liam ! William ! 

Alb. Father ! 

Tell Could I find 
Something- to tear — to rend — were worth it! some- 
thing 
Most ravenous and blood}- ! — something like 
Gesler ! — a wolf! — no, no ! a wolf's a lamb 
To Gesler ! 'T is a natural hunger makes 
The wolf a savage : and, savage as he is, 
Yet with his kind he gently doth consort. 
'T is but his lawful prey he tears ; and that 
He finishes — • not mangles, and then leaves 
To live! 

I 'd let the wolf go free for Gesler ! — Water ! 
M}' tongue cleaves to its roof! [Emma goes out, R. 

Old M. What ails thee, William ? 
I pray thee, William, let me hear thy voice: 
That 's not th}" voice. 

Tell. I can not speak to thee ! 

Emma. \_Retiirning, r., ivith a cup of loater] Here, 
William ! 

Tell. * Emma ! 

Etnma. Drink ! 

Tell. I can not drink ! 

Emma. Your eyes are fixed ! 

Tell. Melcthal — he has no eyes ! [^Bursts into tears. 
The poor old man ! \^Falls on Melcthal's neck. 



WILLIAM TELL. 193 

Old M. I feel thee, Tell ! I care not 
Tluit I have lost my eyes. I feel thy tears — 
They're more to me than eyes ! When 1 had eyes, 
I never knew thee, William, as I know 
Thee now without. I do not want m}' eyes ! 

Tell. How came it, father? briefly, father! quick 
And briefly ! Action ! action ! I 'm in such glee 
For work — so eager to be doing — have 
Such stomach for a task, I 've scarcely patience 
To wait to know what 'tis ! — Here, here; sit down. 
Now, fother ! 

[Old Melcthal sits down, c. ; Tell kneels, l. ; 
Emma and Albert, r. 

Old M. Yesterdaj^, when I and Erni 
Went to the field, to bring our harvest home, 
Two soldiers of the tyrant came upon us ; 
And, without cause alleged, or interchange 
Of word, proceeded to unyoke the oxen. 

Tell. Go on. 

Old M. As one stunned by a thunder-clap 
Stand;? sudden still, nor for a while bethinks him 
Of taking shelter from the storm, so we, 
Confounded by an act so bold, a while 
Looked on in helpless silence ; till, at length, 
Erni, as sudden as the hurricane. 
That lays the oak uprooted ere j^ou see 
Its branches quiver, bounding on the spoilers. 
Wrenched from their grasp the yoke, and would have 

smote 
Them dead, had the}' not ta'en to instant flight. 

Tell. Did he pursue them ? 

D. S.— 17. 



19J: WILLIAM TELL. 

Old M. No : I threw myself 
Between. 

Tell. Why didst thou save them? 

Old M. 'T was my son 
I saved ! I clasped his knees ; I calmed his rage : 
I forced him from me to the caverns of 
Mount Faigel, William, till the tyrant's wrath 
Might cool or be diverted. 'Twas my son 
I saved ; for, scarcely was he out of sight. 
And I within my cottage, when the cries 
Of Gesler's bands beset it, calling for 
The blood of Eriii ! William, he was safe — 
Clear of their fangs ! My son was safe ! Oh, think — 
Think, William, what I felt to see his lair. 
His very lair beset, and know m}^ boy. 
My lion boy was safe ! Enough : they seized me, 
And dragged mo before Gcsler. 

Tell. Say no more ! 
His life cost you your eyes 'T is worth a pair 
Of eyes, but not your eyes, old man. No, no ; 
He would have given it ten times over for 
But one of them. — But one ! but for a hair 
Of the lash ! — My bow and quiver ! [Emma obeys his 
directions'] He was by? 

Old M. Was by. 

Tell. More arrows for my quiver. — 
And looking on? 

Old M. And looking on. 

Tell. [Putting arrows into his quiver] 'T will do ! 
He would dine after that, and say a grace — 
He would ! to tear a man's eyes out, and then 



WILLIAM TELL. 195 

Thank God ! — My staff! — He 'd have his wine, too. 

How 
The man could look at it, and drink it off, 
And not grow sick at the color on 't ! 

[Emma's expression, as she equips him, catches his eye. 
Emma, I thank thee for that look ! 
Now seem'st thou like some kind, o'ersceing angel. 
Smiling as he prepares the storm, that, Avhile it 
Shakes the earth, and makes its tenants pale. 
Doth smite a pestilence. Thou w^ouldst not stay me? 

Emma. No. 

Tell. Nor thy boy, if I required his service ? 

Emma. No, William. 

Tell. Make him ready, Emma. 

Old M. No ; 
Not Albert, William. 

Emma. Yes; even Albert, father. 
Thy cap and wallet, boy — thy mountain staff— 
Where hast thou laid it? Find it — haste! Don't 
keep [^Leading Albert xijy to Tell. 

Thy fother waiting. He is ready, AVilliam. 

Tell. (L.) Well done — w^ell done! I thank you, 
love, I thank you ! 
Now mark me, Albert : dost thou fear the snow. 
The ice-field, or the hail-flaw? Carest thou for 
The mountain mist, that settles on the peak 
When thou'rt upon it? Dost thou tremble at 
The torrent roaring from the deep ravine, 
Along whose shaking ledge th}'- track doth lie ? 
Or foint'st thou at the thunder-clap, Avhen on 
The hill thou art o'crtakcn by the cloud, 



196 WILLIAM TELL. 

And it doth burst around thee? Thou must travel 
All night. 

Alb. I 'm read}^ Say all night again. 

Tell. The mountains are to cross; for thouinust 
reach 
Mount Faigel by the dawn. 

Alb. Not sooner shall 
The dawn be there than I. 

Tell. Heaven speeding thee! 

Alb. Heaven speeding me ! 

Tell. Show me thy staff. Art sure 
Of the point? I think 'tis loose. No — stay — 'twill 

do! 
Caution is speed when danger's to be passed. 
Examine well the crevice ; do not trust 
The snow ! 'T is well there is a moon to-night. 
You ai'c sure of the track? 

Alb. Quite sure. 

Tell. The buskin of 
That leg's untied : stoop down and ftisten it. 
You know the point where you must round the cliff? 

Alb. I do. 

Tell. Thy belt is slack : draw it tight. 
Erni is in Mount Faigel : take this dagger, 
And give it him. You know its caverns well: 
In one of them you '11 find him. Bid thy mother 
Farewell. Come, boy; we go a mile together. 
Father, thy hand. \_Shakes hands icith Old Melcthal. 

Old M. How firm thy grasp is, AVilliam ! 

Tell. There is a resolution in it, father, 
Will keep. 



AVILLIAM TELL. 197 

Old M. I can not see thine eye, but I know 
How it looks. 

Tell. I '11 tell thee how it looks. List, father, 
List. Father, thou shalt bo revenged ! My Emma, 
Mclcthal 's thy ftxther : that is his home till I 
Ueturn. Yes, father, thou shalt be revenged! 
Lead him in, Emma, lead him in ; the sun 
Gi'ows hot ; the old man 's weak and faint. Mind, 

father. 
Mind, thou shalt bo revenged ! In, Avife ; in, in ! — 
Thou shalt be sure revenged ! Come, Albert. 

[Em^ia and Melcthal enter the cottage^ r. — 
Exeunt Tell and Albert hastily, l. 

E}id of Act 7. 



ACT II. 

Scene I: — A Mountain loith mist. Gesler is seen 
descending the rnou7itain icith a hunting jJole, R. u. e. 

Ges. (c.) Alone, alone ! and every step the mist 
Thickens around me ! On these mountain ti-acks 
To lose one's Avay, they say, is sometimes death. 
What, ho ! hollo ! — No tongue replies to me ! 
No thunder hath the horror of this silence ! 
I dare not stoji ! The day, though not half run, 
Is not less sui*e to end in night; and night. 
Dreary when through the social haunts of men 



198 WILLIAM TELL. 

Her solemn darkness Avalks, in sucli u place 

As this, comes wrapped in most appalling fear! 

I dare not stop ; nor dare I, yet, proceed, 

Begirt with hidden danger. If I take 

This hand, it carries me still deeper into 

The wild and savage solitudes I 'd shun, 

Where once to faint with hunger is to die; 

If this, it leads me to the precij)icc, 

Whose brink with fatal horror rivets him 

That treads upon it, till, drunk with fear, he i*eels 

Into the gaping void, and headlong down 

Plunges to still more hideous death ! Cursed slaves! 

To let me wander from them! \_Th(nder'] Ho! hollo! 

My voice sounds weaker to mine ear : I 've not 

The strength to call I had ; and through my limbs 

Cold tremor runs, and sickening faintness seizes 

On my heart ! Oh, Heaven, have mercy ! Do not see 

The color of the hands I lift to thee ! 

Look only on the strait wherein I stand. 

And pity it! Let me not sink ! Uphold — 

Support me ! Mercj' ! mere-}' ! I shall die ! 

[i/e leans against a rock, exhausted; it grows 
darker ; the rain pours down in torrents, and a 
furious wind arises. Albert is seen descending 
by the side of one of the streams^ ivhich he crosses 
U'ith the help of his pole, l. 
Alb. I '11 breathe upon this level, if the wind 
Will let me. Ha ! a rock to shelter me ! 
Thanks to it! — A man, and fainting! — Courage, 

friend. 
Courage ! — A stranger that has lost his way ! ; — 



WILLIAM TELL. 199 

Take heart, take heart ; you 're safe. How feel you 
now? \_Ga-es him drink from a flask. 

Ges. Better. 

Alb. (l. c.) You 've lost 3'our way upon the hill ? 

Ges. I liave. 

Alb. And whither would you go ? 

Ges. To Altorf 

Alb. I 'II guide 3'ou thither. 

Ges. You 're a child. 

Alb. I know 
The way. The track I 've come is harder far 
To find. 

Ges. (r. c.) The track you 've come ! What mean 
you ? Sure 
Y''ou have not been still farther in the mountains .-* 

Alb. I 've traveled from Mount Faigel. 

Ges. No one Avith thee ? 

Alb. No one but God. 

Ges. Do you not fear these storms? 

Alb. God 's in the storm. 

Ges. And there are torrents, too, 
That must be crossed. 

Alb. God 's by the torrent, too. 

Ges. Yoxi 're but a child. 

Alb. God will be with a child. 

Ges. You 're sure you know the way? 

Alb. 'T is but to keep 
The side of yonder stream. 

Ges. But guide me safe, 
I '11 give thee gold. 

Alb. I'll ffuide thee safe without. 



200 WILLIAM TELL. 

Ges. Here's earnest for thee. \_Offers gold] Here. 
I '11 double that — 
Yea, treble it — but let me see the gate 
Of Altorf Why do you refuse the gold ? 
Take it. 

Alb. No. 

Ges. You shall. 

Alh. I will not. 

Ges. Why ? 

Alh. Because 
I do not covet it; and, though I did, 
It would be wrong to take it as the price 
Of doing one a kindness. 

Ges. Ha! who taught 
Thee that? 

Alh. My father. 

Ges. Does he live in Altorf? 

Alb. No; in the mountains. 

Ges. How ! — a mountaineer? 
He should become a tenant of the city : 
He 'd gain by it. 

Alh. Not so much as he might lose by it. 

Ges. What might he lose b}' it? 

Alh. Liberty. 

Ges. Indeed ! 
He also taught thee that? 

Alh. He did. 

Ges. His name? 

Alb. This is the way to Altorf, sir. 

Ges. I 'd know 
Thy father's name. 



WILLIAM TELL. 201 

Alb. The day is wasting : we 
Have far to go. 

Ges. Tliy father's name, I say ? 

Alb. I Avill not tell it thee. 

Ges. Not tell it me? 
Why? 

Alb. You ma}' be an enemy of his. 

Ges. May be a friend. 

Alb. May be : but should you be 
An enemy, although I would not tell you 
My father's name, I 'd guide you safe to Altorf 
Will 3'ou follow me? 

Ges. Ne'er mind th}' fixther's name : 
What would it profit me to know it? Thy hand ! 
We are not enemies. 

Alb. I never had 
An enemy. 

Ges. Lead on. 

Alb. Advance your staff 
As you descend, and fix it well. Come on. 

Ges. What, must Ave take that steep ? 

Alb. 'T is nothing. Come, 
I '11 go before. Ne'er fear. Come on ! come on ! 

[^Exeinit, L. 

Scene II : — The Gate of Altorf. Enter Gesler and 
Albert, r. 

Alb. You 're at the gate of Altorf \_ReturnLng, k. 

Ges. Tarry, boj- ! 

Alb. I would be gone — I 'm waited for 

Ges. Come back ! 



2U2 WILLIAM TELL. 

Who waits for thee? Come, tell me ; I am rich 

And powerful, and can reward. ; 

Alb. (R.) 'T is close j 

On evening : I have far to go : I 'm late. 

Ges. (c.) Stay! I can punish, too. j 

Alb. I might have left 3'ou, 
When on the hill I found you fainting, with 
The mist around you : but I stopped and cheered you, 
Till to yourself j'ou came again. I offered 
To guide 3'ou, when you could not find the way ; 
And I have brought you to the gate of Altorf 

Ges. Boy, do 3'Ou know me ? 

Alb. No. 

Ges. Wh}' fear you, then, 
To trust me with your father's name? — Speak. 

Alb. Why 
Do you desire to know it? 

Ges. You have served me, 
And I would thank him, if I chanced to pass 
His dwelling. 

Alb. 'T would not please him that a service 
So trifling should be made so much of 

Ges. Trifling? 
You 've saved my life. 

Alb. Then do not question me, 
But let me go. 

Ges. When I have learned from thee 
Thy father's name. What, ho ! [^Knocks at gate, c. r. 

Sentinel [ Withini Who 's there ? 

Ges. Gesler ! [ The gate is opened. 

Alb. Ha, Gesler ! 



WILLIAM TELL. 203 

Ges. \_To Soldiers] Seize him ! — Wilt tliou tell me 
Thy father's name ! 

Alb. No! 

Ges. I can bid them east thee 
Into a dungeon ! Wilt thou tell it now? 

Alb. No! 

Ges. I can bid them strangle thee ! Wilt tell it ? 

Alb. Never! 

Ges. Away with him ! Send Sarnem to me. 

[Soldiers take off Albert through the gate. 
Behind that boy I see the shadow of 
A hand must wear my fetters, or 'tAvill tiy 
To strip me of my power. I have felt to-day 
What 't is to live at others' mercy. I 
Have tasted fear to very sickness, and 
Owed to a peasant boy my safety — ay, 
My life ! and there does live the slave can say 
Gesler's his debtor! How I loathed the free 
And fearless air with which he trod the hill I 
Yea, though the safety of his steps was mine, 
Oft as our pathway brinked the precipice, 
I wished to see him miss his footing, and 
Roll over ! But he 's in my power ! — Some way 
To find the parent nest of this fine eaglet, 
And harrow it ! I 'd like to clip the broad 
And full-grown wing that taught his tender pinion 
So bold a flight! 

Enter Sarnem through the gate, c. F. 

Ho, Sarnem ! Have the slaves 
Attended me, returned? 



204 AVILLIAM TELL. 

>SV/r. The}^ have. 

Ges. You '11 see I 

That every one of them be laid in chains ! j, 

Sar. I will. 

Ges. Didst see the boy ? 

Sar. That passed me ? 

6^65. Yes. 

Sar. A mountaineer. 

Ges. You 'd say so, saw you him 
Upon the hills : he walks them like their lord ! 
I tell thee, Sarnem, looking on that boy, 
I felt I was not master of those hills. 
He has a father ! Neither promises 
Nor threats could draw from him his name — a father 
Who talks to him of liberty ! I fear 
That man. 

Sar. He may be found. 

Ges. He must; and, soon 
As found, disposed of I can see the man ! 
He is as palpable to my sight as if 
He stood like you before me. I can see him 
Scaling that rock ; yea, I can feel him, Sarnem, 
As I were in his grasp, and he about 
To hurl me o'er yon parapet! I live 
In danger till I find that man. Send parties 
Into the mountains, to explore them far 
And wide ; and if they chance to light upon 
A father who expects his child, command them 
To drag him straight before us. Sarnem, Sarnem, 
They are not yet subdued ! Some way to prove 
Their spirit! — Take this cap, and have it set 



WILLIAM TELL. 205 

Upon a pole in the market-place, and see 
That one and all do bow to it : whoe'er 
Resists, or pays the homage sullenly, 
Our bonds await him ! Sarnem, see it done. 

\_Exit Sarnem through the gate, c. 
We need not fear the sjjirit that would rebel. 
But dares not. That Avhich dares, we will not fear. 
[^Exit, accompanied by Soldiers, through the gate, c. 



Scene III : — The Market-place. Burghers and Peas- 
ants, with Pierre, Theodore, and Savoyards, 
discovered. 

chorus. 

Pierre, (o.) Come, come, another strain. 
The. (r.) a cheerful one. 
Sav. (l.) What shall it be ? 
The. No matter, so 'tis gay. 
Begin ! 
Sav. You '11 join the burden? 
The. Never fear. 
Go on ! 

[Savoyard plays and sings, during which Tell 
and Verner enter, l. s. e. Tell leans upon his 
how, and listens gloomily. 

The Savoyard, from clime to clime, 
Tunes his strain and sings his rhyme ; 
And still, ichatever clime he sees, 
His eye is bright, his heart 's at ease : 



206 WILLIAM TELL. 

For gentle^ simple — all reward 
The labors of the Savoyard. 

The rich forget their pride, the great 
Forget the splendor of their state, 
Whenever the Savoyard they meet, 
And list his song, and say 'tis sweet ; 
For titled, wealthy — none regard 
The fortune of the Savoyard. 

But never looks his eye so bright, 

A7id never feels his heart so light, 

As when in beauty's smile he sees 

His strain is sweet, his rhyme doth please: 

Oh, that 's the praise doth best reward 

The labors of the Savoyard. 

But though the rich retained their pride. 
And though the great their praise denied, 
Though beauty pleased his song to slight, 
His heart would smile, his eye be bright : 
Mis strain itself would still reward 
The laboi's of the Savoyard. 

{_They shout, and laughingly accompany the Sa- 
voyards to R. u. E. 
Tell. "What's the heart worth that lends itself to 
glee, 
With argument like theirs for bitterness? 
Or is it the melancholy sport of grief 
To look on pleasures, and to handle them, 
That, when it lays the precious jewels down, 
It may perceive its poverty the more? [A laugh. 



WILLIAM TELL. 207 

Methinks those cheeks are not exactly dressed 
To please the hearts that own them. 

Ver. Doubt it not: 
They feel their thralldom. 

Tell, (l.) So they should — that 's hope : 
I 'd have it gall them — eat into their flesh ! 
Long as they fester, there's a remedy : 
But for your callous slave I know no cure ! 
To-morrow brings the test Avill surely prove them. 
You '11 not forget the hour? [^Crosses, c. 

Ver. Be sure I will not. 

Tell. Erni is warned ei*e this ; and Furst, I 'vc said, 
Is ready. Fare you well. [^Going, r. 

Ver. Stay, William ! Now 
Observe the people. 

[TAe people have gathered to one side, and look 
in the opposite direction uith apprehension and 
trouble; those who had gone off, return, r. u. e. 

Tell. Ha ! they please me now : 
That's honest — that 's sincere. I still preferred 
The seasons like themselves. Let summer laugh, 
But give me winter with a hearty scowl : 
None of 3"our hollow sunshine — fogs and clouds 
Become it best. I like them now : their looks 
Are just in season. There has surely been 
Some shifting of the wind, upon such brightness 
To bring so sudden lowering. 

Ver. ~We shall see. 

Pierre. 'T is Sarnem ! 

The. [^Looking out, r. u. e.] What is that he brings 
with him ? 



208 "WILLIAM TELL. 

Pierre. A pole ; and on the top of it, a cap 
That looks like Gesler's. I could pick it from 
A hundred ! 

The. So could I : my heart hath oft 
Leaped at the sight of it! What comes he now 
To do? 

Enter Sarnem, r. u. e., icith Soldiers, hearing Ges- 
ler's eap upon a pole, which he fixes into the 
ground, c, the peopjle looking on in silence and 
amazement. The guards station themselves behind 
the pole. 

Sar. Ye men of Altorf! 
Behold the emblem of your master's power 
And dignity ! This is the cap of Gesler, 
Your Governor. Let all bow down to it 
Who owe him love and loj-alty. To such 
As shall refuse this lawful homage, or 
Accord it sullenly, he shows no grace. 
But dooms them to the penalty of bondage. 
Till they're instructed. 'Tis no less their gain 
Than duty to obey their master's mandate. 
Conduct the people hither, one by one. 
To bow to Gesler's cap. 

Tell. Have I my hearing? 
[Peasants pass from l. to r., taking off their hats 
and bowing to Gesler's cap as they pass. 

Ver. Away ! aAvay ! 

Tell. (R.) Or sight? — They do it, Ycrner, 
They do it ! — Look ! — ■ Ne'er call me man again ! 



WILLIAM TELL. 209 

I '11 herd with baser animals ! They keep 
Their stations : still the dog 's a dog ; the reptile 
Doth know his proper rank, and sinks not to 
The uses of the grade below him. — Man ! 
Man ! that exalts his head above them all, 
Doth ape them all ! He 's man and he 's the reptile ! 
Look ! — Look ! Have I the outline of that caitiflp, 
Who to the tyrant's feather bends his crown, 
The while he loathes the tyrant? 

Ver. Come away, 
Before they mark us. 

Tell. No ! no ! Since I 've tasted, 
I '11 e'en feed on. 
I 'gin, raeLhinks, to like it. 

[Pierre passes the cap, smiles, and boivs slightly. 

Sar. (l.) What smiled you at? 

Pierre. I bowed as low as he did. 

Sar. Nay, but j^ou smiled. How dared you smile? 
Take that! [^Striking him. 

Eemember, when you do smile again, to do it 
In season. 

Tell. Good, good ! 

Ver. \_Takes hold of Tell's ar7n'] Come away. 

Tell. Not yet — not yet. 
Why would you have me quit. The feast, methinks, 
Grows richer and richer? 

Ver. You change color. 

Tell. Do I? 
And so do you. 

ASVrr. [^Striking another'] Bow lower, slave ! 

Tell. Do you feel 

D. S.— 18. 



210 WILLIAM TELL. 

That blow? My flesh doth tingle Avith it. Well done! 
How pleasantly the rascal lays it on ! 
Well done ! well done ! I would it. had been I ! 
Ver. You tremble, William. Come, you must not 

stay. 
Tell. Why not? What harm is there? I tell thee, 

Verner, 
I know no difference 'twixt enduring wi'ong. 
And living in the fear on 't. I wear 
The tyrant's fetters, when it only wants 
His nod to put them on ; and bear his stripes. 
When, that I suffer them, he needs but hold 
His finger up. Yerner, you 're not the man 
To be content because a villain's mood 
Forbears. You 're right — you 're right ! Have with 

5'ou, Yerner. [Going, ii. 

Enter Michael, l. 

Sar. Bow, slave ! [Tell stops and turns. 

Mic. For what? [Laughs. 

Sar. Obey, and question then. 

Mic. I'll question now; perhaps not then obey. 

Tell. A man ! a man ! 

Sar. 'T is Gesler's will that all 
Bow to that cap. 

Mic. Were it th}- lady's cap, 
I 'd courtesy to it. 

Sar. Do you mock us, friend? 

Mic. Not I. I '11 bow to Gesler, if you please. 
But not his cap ; nor cap of any he 
In Christendom ! [Crosses, c. 



WILLIAM TELL. 



211 



Sar. I see you love a jest ; but jest not now, 
Else you may make us mirth, and pay for it, too. 
Bow to the cap ! Do j-ou hear ? 
3Iic. I do. 

Tell. Well done ! A man ! I swear, a man ! 
The lion thinks as much of cowering 
As he does. 

Sar. Once for all, bow to that cap ! 
Tell. Verner, let go my arm ! 
. Sar. Do you hear me, slave ? 
Mic. Slave ! 
Tell. Let me go ! 
Ver. He is not worth it. Tell : 
A wild and idle gallant of the town. 

Tell. A man ! — I 'U swear, a man ! — Do n't hold 
mo, Verner! 
Yerner, let go my arm ! Do you hear me, man ? 
You must not hold me, Yerner. 

Sar. Yillain, bow 
To Gesler's cap ! 

Mic. No — not to Gesler's self! [Crosses, l. 

Sar. Seize him! 

Tell. [Bushing forward, c] Off, off, you base and 
hireling pack ! 
Lay not your brutal touch upon the thing 
God made in his own image ! Crouch yourselves 1 
'T is your vocation, which you should not call 
On free-born men to share with you, who stand 
Erect, except in presence of their God 
Alone ! 

Sar. What! shrink you, cowards? Must I do 



212 WILLIAM TELL. 

Your duty for you ? 

Tell. Let them but stir ! — I 've scattered 
A flock of hungry wolves outnumbering them — • 
For sport 1 did it — sport! I scattered them 
Witli but a staff not half so thick as this. 

\_^Yresfs Sarnem's iceopon from him. Sarnem 
and Soldiers fly^ r. u. e. 
What! Ha! beset bj' hares! Ye men of Altorf, 
What fear ye? Sec what things you fear — the 

shows 
And surfaces of men ! Why stand you wondering 

there? 
Wliy look you on a man that's like yourselves, 
And see him do the deeds yourselves might do, 
And act them not? Or know j-ou not yourselves? 
Wh}^ gaze you still with blanched checks upon me? 
Lack you the manhood even to look on. 
And see bold deeds achieved by others' hands? 
Or is it that cap still holds you thralls to fear? 
Be free, then ! There ! Thus do I trample on 
The insolence of Gesler ! [Throu-s doicn the jjole. 

Sai'. [^Suddenly entering xcith Soldiers, r.] Seize 
him ! 
[.-!// the people, except Yerner and Michael, fly. 
Tell. Surrounded ! 
3ric. stand ! — I '11 back thee ! 
Ver. Madman! [Forces Michael q^, l. 

Sar. Upon him, slaves! — upon him all at once! 
[Tell, after a struggle, is secured and thrown to 
the ground, where they chain him, breathless 
with indignation. 



WILLIAM TELL. 213 

Tell: (c.) Slaves ! 

Sar. Rail on : thy tongue has yet its freedom. 

Tell. Slaves ! 

>SV/r." On to the castle with him — forward! 

Tell. Slaves ! 

Sar-. Away with him ! 

Tableau. 

E7id of Act II. 



ACT III. 



Scene I : — A Chamber in the Castle. Enter Gesler, 
with RoDOLPH, LuTOLD, Gerard, and Officers, r. 

Ges. (c.) [To Eodolph] Double the guards! — 
Stay ! Place youY trustiest men 
At the postern! — Stop! You'd go with half 3'our 

errand : 
I '11 tell you Avhen to go. Let every soul 
Within the walls be under arms! the sick 
That do not keep their beds, or can rise from them, 
Must take a weapon ; can they only raise 
A hand, we 've use for them. Away, now ! 
Tumult [^Exit Rodolpii, c. d. f. 

Under our very brows ! The slaves will come 
In torrents fi-om the hills, and, like a flood, 
O'erwhelm us! [To Lutold] Lutold, 'tis om- tinal 
order, 



214 AVILLIAM TELL. 

On 2)a,in of death, no quarter shall be given ! 
Another word : let them be men this once, 
I promise them the sacking of the town! 
Without reserve, I give it them — of 25i*oi)ert5' 
Or soul! I've nothing further, sir. 

I '11 raze \_Exit Lutold, c. d. f. 

Their habitations, hunt them from their hills, 
Exterminate them, ere I '11 live in fear ! 
What word now? [jTo Eodolph, icho re-enters, c. d. f. 

Eod. (R. c.) 'T was a false alarm. The people 
Paid prompt submission to your order : one 
Alone resisted, whom they have secured, 
And bring in chains before you. 

Ges. (L. c.) So! — I breathe 
Again ! 'T was false, then, that our soldiers fled? 

Bod. 'T was but a party of them fled, my lord ; 
Which, reinforced, returned and soon o'erpowered 
The rash off'ender. 

Ges. What! fled they from one — 
A single man ? How many were there ? 

Eod. Four, 
With Sarnem. 

Ges. Sarnem ! Did he fly ? 

Bod. He did ; 
But 'twas for succor. 

Ges. Succor ! — One to four, 
And four need succor ! I begin to think 
We're sentineled by effigies of men, 
Not men themselves. And Sarnem, too ! What kind 
Of man is he can make a tiger cower? 
Yea, and with backers ! I should like to see 



WILLIAM TELL. 215 

That man. 

Rod He 's here. [Door in f. opens. 

Ges. I 'm on the hills again ! 
I see their bleak tops looking down upon me, 
And think I hear them ask me, Avith a scowl. 
If I would be their master. Do not sheathe 
Your swords! — Stand near me! — Beckon some of 

those 
About me : I would be attended. If 
He stirs, dispatch him ! 

Rod. He 's in chains, my lord. 

Ges. I see — I see ho is. 



Enter Sarnem and Soldiers, icith Tell in chains, 
c. D. F. 

Sar. Down, slave ! 
Behold the Governor ! Down ! down ! and beg 
For mercy! 

Ges. [Seated, r.] Does he hear? 

tSar. Debate it not : 
Be prompt. Submission, slave! Thy knee! thj- knee! 
Or with thy life thou playest ! 

Rod. (r.) Let's force him to 
The ground. 

Ges. Can I believe my eyes ? He smiles ! 

Rod. Why don't j'^ou smite him for that look? 

Ges. He grasps 
His chains, as he would make a weapon of them 
To lay the smiter dead ! 
Behold ! 



216 WILLIAM TELL. 

He has brought them to a jiause ; and there they 

stand 
Like things entranced b}' some magician's speH. 
They must not sec me [^Eises. 

So lost. Come, draw thy breath with ease. Thou 'rt 

Geslcr • — 
Their lord ; and he 's a slave thou look'st upon ! 
Why speak'st thou not ? 

Tdl. (c.) For wonder. 

Ges. Wonder? 

Tell. Yes : 
That thou shouldst seem a man. 

Ges. What should I seem ? 
• Tell. A monster ! 

Ges. Ha ! beware ! Think on thj' chains. 

Tell. Thongli they were doubled, though they 
w^eighed me down 
Prostrate to the earth, methinks I could rise up 
Erect, wnth nothing but the honest pride 
Of telling thee, usurper, to the teeth, 
Thou art a monster ! Think upon my chains! 
Show me the link of them, which, could it speak, 
Would give its evidence against my word. 
Think on my chains ! think on my chains ! 
How came they on me ? 

Ges. Barest thou question me ? 

Tell. Barest thou not answer? 

Ges. Do I hear ? 

Tell. Thou dost. 

Ges. Beware my vengeance ! 

Tell. Can it more than kill ? 



•WILLIAM TELL. 217 

Ges. Enough — it can do that. 

Tell. No, not enough : 
It can not take iiway the grace of life, 
Its comeliness of port that virtue gives. 
Its head erect with consciousness of truth, 
Its rich attire of honorable deeds. 
Its fair report that 's rife on good men's tongues ; 
It can not lay its hands on these, more 
Than it can pluck his brightness from the sun, 
Or -with polluted finger tarnish it. 

Ges. But it can make thee writhe 

Tell. It may. 

Ges. And groan. 

Tell. It may ; and I may cr}^ : 
Go on, though it should make me groan again. 

Ges. Whence comest thou? 

Tell. From the mountains. Wouldst thou learn 
"What news from them? 

Ges. Canst tell me any? 

Tell. Ay : 
They watch no more the avalanche. 

Ges. Why so ? 

Tell. Because they look for thee ! The hurricane 
Comes unawares upon them : from its bed, 
The torrent breaks and finds them in its track — 

Ges. What do they then? 

Tell. Thank Heaven, it is not thou ! 
Thou hast perverted nature in them. The earth 
Presents her fruits to them, and is not thanked ; 
The harvest sun is constant, and they scarce 
Ecturn his smile ; their flocks and herds increase, 

D. S.-19. 



218 WILLIAM TELL. 

And thc}^ look on as men who count a loss; 

Tlicy hear of thriving children born to them, 

And never shake the teller by the hand ; 

AVhile those they have, they see grow up and flourish, 

And think as little of caressing them, 

As they were things a deadly plague had smit : — 

There's not a blessing Heaven vouchsafes them, but 

The thought of thee converts into a curse ; 

As something they must lose, and richer were 

Forever to have lacked. 

Ges. That pleases me ! I 'd have them like their 
j)eaks 
That never smile though joyous summer tempt 
Them e'er so much. 

Tell. Nay, but they sometimes smile. 

Ges. Ay! when is that? \_Cross€s^ l. 

Tell. When they discourse of vengeance ! 

Ges. Vengeance ! Dare 
They talk of that ? 

Tell. Ay, and ex^ject it, too. 

Ges. From whence? 

Tell. From Heaven ! 

Ges From Heaven? 

Tell. And from the hands 
Which they lift up to it on every hill, 
For justice on thee. 

Ges. Where 's thy abode ? 

Tell. I told thee : in the mountains. 

Ges. How lies it — north or south? 

Tell. ISTor north, nor south. 

Ges Is it to the east or west, then ? 



AVILLIAM TELL. 219 

Tell. Where it lies, 
Concerns thee not. 

Ges. It does. 

Tell. And if it does, thou shalt not learn. 

Ges. Art married ? 

Tell. Married ! — Yes. 

Ges. And hast a family? 

Tell. A son. 

Ges. A son! \_Crosses, r., and sits. 

Sarnem ! \_Calls Sarnem, who crosses to him. 

Bar. My lord! The boy? 

[Ctesler signs Sarnem to keep silence, and, ivhis- 
pei'ing, sends him off, l. 

Tell. \_Aside'\ The boy ! — What boy? 
Is it mine ? and have they netted my young fledgeling? 
Now Heaven support me, if they have ! He '11 own 

me. 
And share his father's ruin ! But a look 
Would put him on his guard; yet how to give it! 
Now, heart, thy nerve! Forget thou'rt flesh — be 

rock ! 
They come — they come ! That step — 
That step— so light upon the ground, 
How heavy does it foil upon my heart ! 
I feel my child ! — 'tis he! 
We can but perish. 

Enter Sarnem xcith Albert, whose eyes are riveted 
on Tell's how, which Sarnem carries, l. 

Alb. ^Asidel I was right: it is my father's bow; 
For there 's my father. I '11 not own him, though. 



220 WILLIAM TELL. 

Sar. See ! 

Alb. What? 

Sar. Look there ! 

Alh. "What Avould roii have 
Ale see? 

Sar. Thy father. 

Alh. That is not my father, sir. 

Tell. \^Aside] My boy ! my boy ! — my own brave 
boy ! He 's safe ! 

Sar. [^Aside to Gesler] They re like each other. 

Ges. Yet I see no sign 
Of recognition to betray the tie 
That binds a fother and his child. 

Sar. My lord. 
I 'ra sure it is his father. Look at them : 
The boy did spring from him, or never cast 
Came from the mold it fitted. It may be 
A preconcerted thing 'gainst such a chance, 
That they survey each other coldly thus. 
Besides, with those who lead the mountain life. 
The passions ai-e not taken by surprise 
As ready as with us. 

Ges. IRlses] We shall try. 
Lead forth the caitifi'. 

Sar. To a dungeon ? 

Ges. Xo : 
Into the coui't. 

Sar. The court, my lord? 

Ges. And tell 
The headsman to make i-eady. — Quick ! He dies I 
The slave shall die ! — You marked the boy ? 



AVILLIAM TELL. 221 

Sar. I did : 
He started. — ^T is his father ! 

Ges. We shall see. — 
Away with him ! 

Tell. Stop ! — stay ! 

Ges. What would j'ou ? 

Tell. Time — 
A little time, to call my thoughts together. 

Ges. Thou shalt not have a minute ! 

Tell. Some one, then, 
To speak with. 

Ges. Hence with him ! 

Tell. A moment — stop ! 
Let me speak to the boy. 

Ges. Is he thy son ? 

Tell. And if 
He were, art thou so lost to nature as 
To send me forth before his face to die? 

Ges. Well, speak with him. — Now, Sarnem, mark 
them well. [Albert goes to Tell. 

Tell. Thou dost not know me, boy ; and well for 
thee 
Thou dost not. I am the father of a son 
About thy age. I dare not tell thee where 
To find him, lest he should be found of those 
'T were not so safe for him to meet with. Thou, 
I see, wast born, like him, upon the hills. 
If thou shouldst 'scajie thy present thralldom, thou 
May'st chance to cross him : if thou should'st, I jjray 

thee, 
Kelate to him Avhat has been passing here, 



222 WILLIAM TELL. 

And say I laid my hand iqjon thy head, 

And said to thee — if he were here, as thou art — 

Thus would I bless him : May'st thou live, my boy, 

To see thy country free, or die for her, 

As I do! [_Crosses, l. 

Sar. Mark ! — He weeps ! 

Tell. Were he my son. 
He would not shed a tear : he would remember 
The cliff where ho was bred, and learned to scan 
A thousand flithoms' depth of nether air; 
Where he was trained to hear the thunder talk. 
And meet the lightning e^-e to e3'e ! Avhere last 
We spoke together — when I told him death 
Bestowed the brightest gem that graces life. 
Embraced for virtue's sake. — He shed a tear ! 

\_Crosses, c. 
Now, were ho b}^, I'd talk to him; and his cheek 
Should never blanch, nor moisture dim his eye: 
I'd talk to him — 

Sar. He falters. 

Tell. l^Aside'] 'T is too much ! 
And yet it must be done ! — I 'd talk to him — 

Ges. Of what? 

Tell. ^Tirns to Gesl'ek] The mother, tj-rant, whom 
thou dost make 
A Avidow of! I 'd talk to him of her. 

\_Turns to Albert. 
I 'd bid him tell her, next to libert}', 
Her name was the last word my lips pronounced : 
And I would charge him never to forget 
To love and cherish her, as he would have 



WILLIAM TELL. 223 

His father's dying blessing rest npon him ! 

Sar. Yon see, what one suggests, the other acts. 

Tell. \_Aside] So well he bears it, I almost give way. 
My boy ! my boy ! — Oh, for the hills — the hills ! 
To see him bound along their tops again. 
With liberty, so light upon his heel. 
That, like the chamois, he flings behind him — 
Sar. Was there not all the father in that look ? 

Ges. Yet 't is against nature. 

tSar. Not if he believes 
Owning the boy, the son belike might share 
The father's flite. 

Ges. I did not think of that. 
I thank thee, Sarnem, for the thought. — 'T is well 
The boy is not thy son : he is about 
To die along with thee. 

Tell. To die! for what? 

Ges. For having braved my power, as thou hast. 
Lead them forth ! 

Tell. He 's but a child. 

Ges. (r.) Away with them ! 

Tell. (r. c.) Perhaps an only child. 

Ges. No matter. 

Tell. He 
May have a mother. 

Ges. So the viper hath ; 
And yet who spares it for the mother's sake? 

Tell. I talk to stone ! I talk to it as though 
'T were flesh, yet know 't is none. No wonder : I 've 
An argument might turn as hard a thing 
To flesh —to softest, kindliest flesh that e'er 



224 WILLIAM TELL. 

Sweet Pity chose to lodge her fountain iii — 
But still 'tis nought but stone. I '11 talk to it 
No more. — Come, ni}- boy! 
I taught thee how to live. I '11 show thee how 
To die ! 

Ges. He is thy child ? 

Tell. \_Emhraces Albert] He is w\y child ! 

Ges. I 've wrung a tear from him ! — Thy name. 

Tell. My name ! 
[^5iV7e] It matters not to keep it from him now. — 
]\Jy name is Tell. 

Ges. What! William Tell? 

Tell. The same. 

Ges. What ! he so famed 'bove all his countrymen, 
For guiding o'er the stormy lake the boat? 
And such a master of his bow, 't is said 
His arrows never miss! — Indeed, I'll take 
Exquisite vengeance ! — Mark ! I '11 spare thj'- life, 
Thy boy's, too — both of you are free — on one 
Condition, 

Tell. Name it. 

Ges. I would see you make 
A trial of your skill with that same bow 
You shoot so well with. 

Tell. Please j'ou name the trial 
You would have me make. [ioo/.-.s on Albert. 

Ges. You look upon your bo}', 
As though instinctively you guessed it. 

Tell. ^Look 
Upon my \)oy\ What mean you? Look upon 
My boy as though I guessed it ! Guessed the trial 



WILLIAM TELL. 225 

You would have me make ? Guessed it instinctively? 
Instinctively! You do not mean — No, no — 
You would not have me make a trial of 
My skill upon my child ! Impossible ! 
I do not guess your meaning. 

Ges. ' I would see 
Thee iiit an apple at the distance of 
A hundred paces. 

Tell. Is my boy to hold it? 

Ges. No. 

Tell. No ! — I '11 send the arrow through the core ! 

Ges. It is to rest upon his head. 

Tell. Oh, Nature ! 
Thou hcarcst him ! 

Ges. Thou dost hear the choice I give : 
Such trial of the skill thou 'rt master of, 
Or death to both of jon, not otherwise 
To be escaped. 

Tell. Oh, monster ! 

Ges. Wilt thou do it? 

Alb. He will ! he will ! 

Tell. Ferocious monster ! Make 
A father mui'der his own child ! 

Ges. Take oif 
His chains, if lie consents. > - , 

Tell. With his own hand ! 

Ges. Does he consent? 

Alb. He does ! 

[Gesler signs to his Officers, icho take off Tell's 
chains ; Tell xinconscious of what they do. 

Tell, (c.) With his own hand ! 



22G WILLIAM TELL. 

Murder his child with his own hand ! 

The hand I 've led him, when an infant, by! 

'T is bc}' ond horror — 't is most horrible ! — 

Amazement ! — 'T is too much for flesh and blood 

To bear — I should be made of steel to stand it: 

And I believe I am almost about 

To turn to some such thing ; for feeling grows 

Benumbed within me. \_IIis chains fall off. 

Villains! \_To the Guards] put on my chains again! 

My hands 
Arc free from blood, and have no gust for it, 
That they would drink my child's ! — Here ! here! 

I '11 not 
Murder my boy for Gesler ! 

Alb. Father — father! 
You will not hit me, father ! 

Tell. Hit thee ! send 
The arrow through thy brain ! or, missing that, 
Shoot out an eyo ! or, if thine eye escapes, 
Mangle the cheek I 'vc seen thy mother's lij)S 
Cover with kisses ! — Hit thee ! hit a hair 
Of thee, and cleave thy mother's heart! Who is ho 
That bids me do it? Show him me — the monster ! 
Make him jjerceptible unto my reason 
And heart! In vain my senses vouch for it: 
I hear he lives — I see it — but it is 
A prodigy that nature can't believe ! 

Ges. (r.) Dost thou consent? 

Tell. Give me my bow and quiver. 

Ges. For what? 

Tell. To shoot my boy ! 



WILLIAM TELL. 227 

Alb. No, father! no: 
To save me! You'll be sure to hit the apple. 
Will you not save me, father? 

Tell. Lead me forth — 
I '11 make the trial ! 

Alb. . Thank you ! 

Tell. Thank mc! Do 
You know for what? — I will not make the trial. 
To take him to his mother in ni}- arms. 
And la}' him down a corse before her ! [Crosses, l. 

Ges. Then 
He dies this moment; and you certainly 
Murder the child whose life you have a chance 
To save, and Avill not use it. 

Tell. Well, I '11 do it : 
I '11 make the trial. 

Alb. \_liuns to TelIj cnid embraces him'] Father! 

Tell. Speak not to me ! 
Let me not hear thy voice — thou must be dumb! 
And so should all things be : earth should be dumb. 
And Heaven, unless its thunders muttered at 
The deed, and sent a bolt to stop it! Give mo 
My bow and quiver. 

Ges. When all is ready. 

Tell. Well ! 
Lead on ! 

l£Jxeu7it Gesler and Sarnem, r. ; Tell, Albert, 
and Guards, c. d. f. 



228 WILLIAM TELL. 

Scene II : — Without the Castle. Enter, slotchj, several 
Citizens, as if observing something following them, 
Yerner and Theodore, l. u. e. 

Ver. (o.) The pace tliey 're moving at is that of men 
About to do the work of death. Some wretch 
Is doomed to suffer. Should it be my friend — 
Should it bo Tell ! 

The. (l. c.) No doubt 't is some good man. 

Ver. Poor Switzerland ! poor country ! Not a son 
Is left thee now that 's worth the name of one ! 
'T is not a common man, with such jiarade, 
Thej' lead to death : I count four castellans 
Already. 

The. There 's a fifth. 

Ver. And Sarnem, too. 
Do 3'^ou see him? 

The. Yes ; and Gesler folloAvs him. 
Who can it be ? 

Ver. Wo '11 see. He 's coming now. — 
'T is William Tell ! 

The. Yerner, do you know the boy 
That follows him? 

Ver. A boy ! It is his son ! 
What horror is to be acted? Do you see 
The headsman ? 

The. No, I see no headsman there ; 
No apparatus for the work of death. 
Perliaps they 're not to suffer. 

Ver. Lo you how 
The women clasp their hands, and now and then 



WILLIAM TELL. 229 

Look up to Heaven I You see that some do weep. 
No headsman is there ; but Gesler 's at no loss 
For means of cruelty, because there lacks 
A headsman. 

Enter Pierre, r. u. e. 

Pierre. [^Rushing ?";»] Horrible ! — most horrible 
Decree ! — To save his own and Albert's life. 
Tell is to hit an apple resting on the head 
Of his own child ! 

Enter, slowly, Burghers and Women, Lutold, Eo- 
DOLPH. Gerard, Sarnem, Gesler, Tell, Albert, 
and a Soldier bearing Tell's bow and quiver, 
another with a basket of ajrples; Soldiers, etc., r. 
The Soldiers form on r., the Villagers on l. 

Ges. (l. c.) That is your ground. Now shall they 
measure thence 
A hundred paces. Take the distance. 

Tell. \_Advancing to the front, r.] Is 
The line a true one? 

Ges. True or not, what is it 
To thee ? 

Tell. What is it to me ? A little thing, 
A very little thing ; a yard or two 
Is nothing liere or there, were it a wolf 
I shot at. Never mind. 

Ges. Be thankful, slave. 
Our grace accords thee life on any teiMns. 

Tell. I will be thankful, Gesler ! — Villain, stop ! 



230 WILLIAM TELL. 

You measure to the sun. 

Ges. And what of that ? 
What matter, whether to or from the sun? 

Tell. I 'd have it at my back. The sun should 
shine 
Upon the mark, and not on him that shoots. 
I can not see to shoot against the sun — 
I will not shoot against the sun ! 

Ges. Give him his way. Thou hast cause to bless 
my mercy. 

Tell. I shall remember it. I 'd like to see 
The apple I 'm to shoot at. 

Ges. (c.) Show me 
The basket. — There ! \_Gives a very small apple. 

Tell. (l. c.) You 've picked the smallest one. 

Ges. I know 1 have. 

Tell: Oh ! do you ? But you see 
The color on it is dark : I 'd have it light. 
To see it better. 

Ges. Take it as it is : 
Thy skill will be the greater if thou hit'st it. 

Tell. True, true ; I did n't think of that : I wonder 
I did not think of that. — Give me some chance 
To save my boj^ ! \_Throics away the apple icith all his 

force'] I will not murder him, 
If I can help it ! — for the honor of 
The form thou wearest, if all the heart is gone. 

Ges. Well, choose thyself 

[^Hands a basket of apples ; Tell takes one. 

Tell. Have I- a friend among 
The lookers-on? 



WILLIAM TELL. 231 

Ver. Here, Tell ! 

Tell. I thank thco, Verner ! 
He is a friend that does not mind a storm 
To shake a hand Avith us. I must be brief: 
When once the bow is bent, Ave can not take 
The shot too soon. Verner, whatever be 
The issue of this hour, the common cause 
Must not stand still. Let not to-morrow's sun 
Set on the tyrant's banner. — Yerner — Verner! 
The boy — the boy ! Think'st thou he has the courage 
To stand it ? 

Ver. Yes. 

Tell. Does he tremble? 

Ver. No. 

Tell. Art sure ? 

Ver. I am. 

Tell. How looks he ? 

Ver. Clear and smilingly. 
If you doubt it, look yourself. 

Tell. No, no, my friend ! 
To hear it is enough. 

Ver. He bears himself 
So much above his years — 

Tell. 1 know — I knoAv! 

Ver. With constancy so modest — 

Tell. I was sure 
He would — 

Ver. And looks Avith such relying love 
And reverence upon you — 

Tell. Man ! man ! man ! 
No more ! Already I 'm too much the father 



232 WILLIAM TELL. 

To act the man. — Yerner, no more, my friend! 
I Avould be flint — flint — flint! don't make me feci 
I 'm not. You do not mind me. Take tlie boy 
And set him, Verner, with his back to me: 
Set him upon his knees; and pUice the apple 
Upon his head so that the stem may front me — 
Thus, Verner. Charge liim to keep steady: tell him 
I '11 hit the apple. Verner, do all this 
More briefly than I tell it thee. 

Ver. Come, Albert. \_Leading him behind. 

Alb. May I not speak with him before I go ? 

Ver. No — 

Alb. I Avould only kiss his hand. 

Ver. You must not. 

Alb. I must! I can not go from him without! 

Ver. It is his will you should. 

Alb. (l. c.) His will, is it? 
I am content, then. Come! 

2\dl. M_y boj^ ! [^Holding out his arms to him. 

Alb. M}^ father! \_Eunning into Tell's (ums. 

Tell. If thou canst bear it, should not I ? Go, now, 
My son, and keep in mind that I can shoot. 
Go, boy — be thou but stead}' : I shall hit 
The apple. \_Kisses hijnl^ Go! — God bless thee ! — go. 
My bow ! [Sarnem gives the bow. 

Thou wilt not fail thy master, wilt thou? Thou 
Hast never failed him 3^et, old servant. No, 
I 'm sure of thee ; I know th}- honesty : 
Thou 'rt stanch — stanch! 1 'd deserve to find thee 

treacherous, 
Could I suspect thee so. Come, I will stake 



WILLIAM TELL. 233 

My all upon tlicc! — Let me see my quiver. 

Ges. Give him a single arrow. 

Tell. Do you shoot ? 

Lut. I do. 

Tell. Is it so you i^ick an arrow, friend ? 
The point, you see, is blunt ; the feather jagged : 
That's all the use 'tis fit for. \_Breahs it. 

Ges. Let him have 
Another. [Tell examines another. 

Tell. Why, 't is better than the first. 
But yet not good enough for such an aim 
As I'm to take. 'T is heavy in the shaft: 
1 '11 .not shoot Avith it! \_Throics it away'] Let me sec 

my quiver ; 
Bring it! 'tis not one arrow in a dozen 
I 'd take to shoot with at a dove, much less 
A dove like that! What is it you fear? I 'm but 
A naked man — a wretched, naked man ! 
Your helpless thrall, alone in the midst of j'ou ; 
With every one of you a Avcapon in 
His hand ! What can I do, in such a strait. 
With all the arrows in that quiver? Come, 
AVill you give it me or not? 

Ges. It matters not : 
Show him the quiver. You're resolved, I sec, 
Nothing shall please 3'ou. 

[Tell kneels and j)icks out an arrow. 

Tell. Am I so? That 's strange — 
That 's ver}' strange ! — Is the boy read}^ ? 

[^While Tell, unobserved, secures an arrow in his 
breast, Lutold goes out, 'L.,and returns immediately. 
D. S.-20, 



234 WILLIAM TELL. 

Lut. The boy is ready. 

Tell. I 'm ready, too ! — Keep silence, every one ! 
And stir not, for my child's sake : and let me have 
Your prayers — your j)i'ayers: and be my witnesses, 
That if his life's in peril from my hand, 
'Tis only for the chance of saving it. 

[Tell raises the how as if to shoot, btit, overcome 
tcitli agitation, he lets the bow fall. 
Ges. Go on ! go on ! 
Tell. I will! I will! 
Now friends, for mercy's sake, keep motionless 
And silent! \_Shoots from r. c, and a shout of e.vidta- 
tion bursts from the crowd. Tell drops on the 
stage. Yerner rushes in with Albert, l. 
Ver. Thy boy is safe! no hair of him is touched ! 
Alb. Father, I'm safe! your Albert's safe! Dear 
father. 
Speak to me — speak to me! 
Ver. He can not. bo}'. 
Alb. [Tb Gesler] You grant him life? 
Ges. I do. 

Alb. And we are free ? 

Ges. You arc. \_Crossing angrily behind to l. c. 
Alb. Thank Heaven ! thank Heaven ' 
Ver. Open his vest. 
And give him air. 

[Albert opens his father' s vest, and an arrow drops 
out. Tell starts, f.ves his eyes on Albert, and. 
clasps him to his breast. 
Tell, (c.) My boy ! my boy ! 
Ges, For Avhat 



WILLIAM TELL. 235 

Hid you that arrow in 3'our breast? Speak, slave! 

Tell. To kill thee, tyrant, had 1 slain my son ! 
And now, beware ! \_Suddenly takes aim at Gesler. 
Stir thou, or any stir, 
This shaft is in thy heart ! 

[Tell retreats slowly, while Yerner removes Al- 
bert ; Gesler and the rest, following Tell with 
their eyes, remain in breathless and motionless 
suspense. 
Sar. He shoots ! 

Ges. Oh ! [^Falls dead, transfixed with the arroxo. 
Sar. Pursue him! — Hold! A host of friends 
have joined him', 
And all in arms! They now advance! 

L\(t. On this side 
Another speeds ! 

Sar. Back to the castle ! 
Lxit. Look ! 
[Michael and his friends appear on the ramparts. 
The castle is betrayed ! 

Mic. We thank you, friends. 
For changing quarters with us ! 

Sar. Ha l" Shut out ! 
Surrounded ! 

[^Enter, on one side, Swiss, led by Tell, etc., and, 
on the other, Emma, followed by Swiss, led by 
Erni. 
Tell. Yield ! Kesistance now is hopeless ! 
Your lives are spared : the tyrant 's will suffice ! 
Emma, your child ! — "VVe are free, my countrymen ! 
Our country is free ! — Austrians, you'll quit the land 



236 WILLIAM TELL. 

You never had a right to ! And remember, 

The country 's never lost that 's left a son 

To struggle with the foe that w^ould enslave her ! 



COSTUMES. 

Gesler. — Green velvet tunic and cloak, trimmed with ermine; 

flesh legs and sandals; black cap and feathers. 
Sarnem. — llussct-colored body, cloak, and trunks, trimmed with 

yellow, and brass buttons; white leggings and russet boots; 

black cap and feathers. 
LuTOLD. — Same — green. 

Melcthal. — Light brown tunic and cloak; flesh legs and san- 
dals; gray hair; hat to match suit. 
Pierre. — Brown tunic; blue hose; russet shoes; blackcap. 
Theodore. — Same — gray. 
Officers. — Red tunics; flesh-coloreil legs and arms; sandals; 

caps with bright rims round them; swords and bands. 
Archers, Soldiers. — Same — green and red. 
Savoyards. — Plum-colored jackets and trunks, trimmed with 

red binding; white shirts; Swiss braces and hats. 
Peasants. — Diff"ereut-colored tunics ; gray and red or blue hose; 

blue-black hats; russet shoes. 
William Tell. — Dark brown jacket and trunks; flesh legs and 

sandals; loose cloak to throw across his shoulders; white 

shirt to draw close round the throat ; cap to matcii suit. 
Verner. — Light gray tunic; cloak to throw across shoulders; 

cap of same; flesh legs and sandals; white shirt. 
Ernt. — Same — light blue. 
FiiRST. — Same — dark brown. 
Albert. — Same— drab-colored. 
E.MMA. — Slate-colored body and petticoat, trimmed with fur; 

sandals, flesh stockings, etc. 



JAFFIER AND BELVIDERA. 



237 




JAFFIER AND BELVIDEEA. 



Frovi Otway 's Venice Preserved, 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
Belvideua. Priuli. 



Jaffier. 

The Duke of Venice. 



Pierre. 
Senators. 



Guards. 



Scene I :—A Street. Enter Belvidera and Jaffier, l. 



238 JAFFIER AND BELVIDERA. 

Jaf. Where dost thou lead me ? Every step I move, 
Methinks I tread upon some mangled limb 
Of a racked friend. Oh, my dear, charming ruin ! 
AVhere are we wandering ? 

Bel. (r. c.) To eternal honor ! 
To do a deed shall chronicle thy name 
Among the glorious legends of those few 
That have saved sinking nations. Every street 
Shall be adorned with statues to thy honor ; 
And at thy feet this great inscription written : 
" Remember him that propped the fall of Venice ! " 

Jaf. Kather, remember him who, after all 
The sacred bonds of oaths and holier friendship, 
In fond comjjassion to a woman's tears. 
Forgot his manhood, virtue, truth, and honor. 
To sacrifice the bosom that relieved him ! 
Why wilt thou damn me ? 

Bel. Oh, inconstant man ! 
How will you promise ! how will you deceive! 
Do return back; replace me in my bondage; 
Tell all thy friends how dangerously thou lov'st me ; 
And let ihj dagger do its bloody office ! 
Or, if thou think'st it nobler, let me live 
Till I'm a victim to the hateful will 
Of that infernal devil ! 
Last night, my love — 

Jaf. Name — name it not again ! 
Destruction, swift destruction, 
Fall on m}^ cowai'd head, if 
I forgive him! 

Bel. Delay no longer, then, but to the senate, 



JAFFIER AND BELVIDERA. 239 

And tell the dismalcst story ever uttered ; 
Tell them what bloodshed, rapines, desolations 
Have been prepared ; how near is the fatal hour. 
Save thy poor eountr}-; save the reverend blood 
Of all its nobles, which to-morrow's dawn 
Must else see shed ! 

Jaf. Oh ! 

Bel. Think what then may prove 
My lot: the ravisher may then come safe, 
And, 'midst the terror of the public ruin. 
Do a black deed. 

Jaf. By all Heaven's powers, projjhetic truth 
dwells in thee ! 
For every Avord thou speakest strikes through my 

heart 
Like a new light, and shows it how it has wandered. 
Just what thou 'st made me, take me, Belvidera, 
And lead me to the place where I 'm to say 
This bitter lesson ; where I must betra}^ 
My truth, my virtue, constancy, and friends. 
Must I betray my friends ? Ah ! take me quickly, 
Secure me well, before that thought is renewed : 
If I relapse once more, all 's lost forever. 

Bel. Hast thou a friend more dear than Belvidera ? 

Jaf. No: thou 'rt my soul itself — wealth, friend- 
ship, honor ! 
All present joys, and earnest of all future, 
Are summed in thee. \_Going., R. 

Enter Captain ayid Guards, r. s. e. 
Capt. Stand ! — Who goes there? 



240 JAFFIER AND BELVIDERA. 

Bel. Friends. 

Capt. But what friends are you? 

Bel. Friends to the senate and the state of Venice. 

Capt. My orders are to seize on all I find 
At this late hour, and bring them to the council, 
Who are now sitting. 

Jiif. Sir, you shall bo obeyed. 
Now the lot is cast, and, Fate, do what thou wilt. 

[^Exeunt Jafpier and Belvidera, guarded. 



Scene II : — The Senate House. The Duke op Venice, 
Priuli, and other Senators discovered, sitting. 

Duke. Antony, Priuli, senators of Venice, 
Speak : wh}^ are we assembled here this night? 
What have you to inform us of, concerns 
The state of Venice's honor or its safety ? 

Priuli. (R.) Could words express the story I 've to 
tell you. 
Fathers, these tears were useless — these sad tears 
That fall from my old eyes : but there is cause 
We all should weep, tear off these purple robes, 
And wrap ourselves in sackcloth, sitting down 
On the sad earth, and cr^^ aloud to Heaven. 
Heaven knows if yet there be an hour to come 
Ere Venice be no more ! 

Duke. How ! 

Priuli. Nay, we stand 
Upon the ver}' brink of gaping ruin ! 
Within this city is formed a dark conspiracy 



JAFFIER AND BELVIDERA. 241 

To massacre us all — our Avives and children, 
Kindred and friends ; our palaces and temjiles 
To lay in ashes : nay, the hour, too, fixed ; 
The swords, for aught I know, drawn even this 

moment. 
And the wild waste begun. From unknown hands 
I had this warning. But, if we are men. 
Let 's not be tamely butchered, but do something 
That may inform the world, in after ages. 
Our virtue Avas not ruined, though we were. 

[A noise icithin, l. 
Capt. [ Within'] Room, room ! make room there for 

some prisonei's ! 

Enter Officer, l. 

Duke. Speak, speak, there ! What disturbance? 

Officer. A j^risoner have the guards seized in the 
street, 
"Who says he comes to inform this reverend council 
About the present danger. 

Enter Officer, Jaffier, Captain, and Guards, l. 

All. Give him entrance. \_Exit Officer] Well, who 
are you ? 

Jaf. (l.) a villain ! 
Would every man that hears me - 
Would deal so honestly, and own his title ! 

Duke. 'T is rumored that a j^lot has been contrived 
Against the state, and you 've a share in it, too. 

D. S.-21. 



242 JAFFIER AND BELVIDERA. 

If you 're a villain, to redeem your honor, 
Unfold the truth, and be restored with mercy. 

Jaf. Think not that I to save my life came hither ; 
I know its value better ; but in pity 
To all those wretches whose unhappy dooms 
Are fixed and sealed. You see me here before you, 
The sworn and covenanted foe of Venice : 
But use me as my dealings may deserve, 
And I may prove a friend. 

Duke. The slave capitulates! 
Give him the tortures ! 

Jaf. That you dare not do ; 
Your feai-s won't let j^ou, nor the longing itch 
To hear a story which you dread the truth of: 
Truth, which the fear of smart shall ne'er get from 

me. 
Cowards arc scared Avith threat'nings ; boys are 

whipped 
Into confessions ; but a steady mind 
Acts of itself — ne'er asks the body counsel. 
Give him the tortures ! Name but such a thing 
Again, by Heaven, I'll shut these lips forever! 
Nor all your racks, your engines, or j-our wheels 
Shall force a groan away that you may guess at ! 

[Crosses, R. 

Duke. Name your conditions. 

Jaf. For myself full ]mrdon, 
Besides the lives of two-and-twenty friends, 
Whose names I have enrolled. Nay, let their crimes 
Be ne'er so monstrous, I must have the oaths 
And sacred promise of this reverend council. 



JAFFIER AND BELVIDERA. 24!^ 

Thut, in a full assembl}' of the senate, 
The thing I ask be ratified. Swear this, 
And I '11 unfold the secrets of 3'our danger. 

Duke. Propose the oath. 

Jaf. (c.) B3' all the hopes 
You haye of peace and happiness hereafter, 
Swear ! 

Duke. We swear ! 

Jaf. And, as ye keep the oath, 
May you and your posterity be blessed 
Or cursed forever ! 

Duke. Else be cursed forever ! 

Jaf. Then hei-e 's the list, and with it the full dis- 
closure [^Delivers two papers to the Officer, who 
Of all that threaten you. hands them to the Duke. 

Now, Fate, thou hast caught me ! 

Duke. Give order that all diligent search be made 
To seize these men : their characters are public. 
The paper intimates their rendezvous 
To be at the house of the famed Grecian courtesan, 
Called Aquilina : see that place secured. 
You, Jaifier, must Avith patience bear till morning 
To be our prisoner. 

Jaf. Would the chains of death 
Had bound me fast ere I had known this minute! 

Duke. Captain, withdraw your prisoner. 

Jaf. [Tb Officer] Sir, if possible. 
Lead me where my own thoughts themselves may 

lose me ; 
Where I may doze out what I 've left of life ; 
Forget myself and this day's guilt and falsehood. 



244 JAFFIER AND BELVIDERA. 

Cruel remembrance! how shall I appease thee? 

[-EriY, guarded^ r. 
Officer. [Withouf] More traitors! Eoom, room, 

room ! make room there ! 
Duke. How is this? 
The treason is 
Already at the doors ! 

Enter Officer and Captain, l. 

Officer. My lords, more traitors ! 
Seized in the very act of consultation ; 
Furnished with arms and instruments of mischief. — 
Bring in the prisoners ! 

Enter Pierre and other Prisoners in chains., l. 

Pierre, (l.) You, my lords and fathers, 
(As 3'ou are pleased to call yourselves,) of Yenice ! 
If you set here to guide the course of justice. 
Why these disgraceful chains upon the limbs 
That have so often labored in your service ? 
Are these the Avreaths of triumph you bestoAV 
On those that bring jow. conquest home, and honors? 

Duke. Go on : you shall be heard, sir. 

Pierre, (l. c.) Are these the troi^hies I 've deserved 
for fighting 
Your battles with confederated powers? 
When winds and seas conspired to overthrow you. 
And brought the fleets of Spain to your own harbors ; 



JAFPIER AND BELVIDERA. 245 

When you, great duke, shrunk trembling in your 

palace, 
Stepped not I forth and taught your loose Venetians 
The task of honor and the way to greatness ? 
Eaised you from your capitulating fears, 
To stipulate the terms of sued-for peace ? 
And this my recompense ! If I 'm a traitor, 
Produce my charge ; or show the wretch that 's base 
And brave enough to tell me I 'm a traitor ! 

[Goes to the table. 

Duke. Know you one Jaffier? 

Pierre. Yes, and know his virtue. 
His justice, truth, his general worth, and sufferings 
From a hard father, taught me first to love him. 

Duke. See him brought forth. 

Enter Captain icith Jaffier in chains, r. 

Pierre. My friend, too, bound ! Nay, then. 
Our fate has conquered us, and we must fall. 
Why droops the man whose welfare's so much mine. 
They're but one thing? These reverend tyrants, 

Jaffier, 
Do call us traitors. Art thou one, my brother? 

Jaf. (r. c.) To thee I am the falsest, veriest slave 
That e'er betrayed a generous, trusting friend, 
And gave up honor to be sure of ruin. 
All our fair hopes, which morning was to've crowned, 
Has this cursed tongue o'erthrown. 

Pierre, (c.) So, then, all's over! 
Yenice has lost her freedom, I my life. 



246 JAFPIER AND BELVIDERA. 

No more ! \_Crosses, l. 

Duke. Siiy, will you make confession 
Of your vile deeds, and trust the senate's mercy? 
Pierre. [^Returns to c] Cursed be your senate ! 
cursed your constitution ! 
The curse of growing factions and divisions 
Still vex 3'our councils, shake your public safety, 
And make the robes of government you wear 
Hateful to you as these base chains to me ! 
Duke. Pardon or death ! 
Pierre. Death ! — honorable death ! 
Prisoner. Death 's the best thing we ask or you 

can give. 
Duke. Break up the council. Captain, guard 3'our 
jirisoners. 
Jaffier, you 're free ; but these must wait for judgment, 
\_E.veunt Duke, Senators, Conspirators, and 
Officer. 
Pierre, (c.) Come, where 's m}- dungeon ? Lead 
me to my straw : 
It will not be the first time I 'vc lodged hard 
To do 3'our senate service. 

Jaf. (r. c.) Hold — one moment! 
Pierre. Who 's he disputes the judgment of the 
senate? 
Presumptuous rebel ! — ■ on ! — [^Strikes Jaffier. 

Jaf. (c.) By Heaven, you stir not ! 

\_E.veunt Captain and Guards, u. 
I must be heard ! I must have leave to speak ! 
Thou hast disgraced me, Pierre, by a vile blow: 
Jlad not a dagger done thee nobler justice? 



JAFFIER AND BELVIDERA. 247 

But use me as thou wilt, thou canst not wrong me, 
For I am fallen beneath the basest injuries: 
Yet look upon me with an eye of mercy, 
And as there dwells a godlike nature in thee, 
Listen with mildness to my supplications. 

Pierre, (r. c.) What whining monk art thou? what 
holy cheat, 
That wouldst encroach upon my credulous ears. 
And cantest thus vilely ? Hence ! I know thee not ! 
Jaf. Not know me, Pierre ! 
Pierre. No — know thee not! What ai-t thou? 
Jaf. Jaffier, thy friend — thy once-loved, valued 
friend ; 
Though now deservedly scorned and iised most 
hardl}'. 
Pierre. Thou Jaffier ! thou my once-loved, valued 
fi'iend ! 
By Heavens, thou liest ! the man so called my friend 
Was generous, honest, faithful, just, and valiant; 
Noble in mind, and in his person lovely; 
Dear to my eyes and tender to my heart : 
But thou, a wretched, base, false, Avorthless coward ; 
Poor even in soul, and loathsome in thy aspect; 
All eyes must shun thee, and all hearts detest thee. 
Prithee, avoid, nor longer cling thus round me, 
Like something baneful that my nature 's chilled at. 
Jaf. I have not wronged thee ; by these tears, I 

have not ! 
Pierre. Hast thou not wronged me? Dar'st thou 
call thyself 
That once-loved, honest, valued friend of mine, 



248 JAPFIER AND BELVIDERA. 

And swear thou hast not wronged me? Wlicnce 

these chains? 
Whence the vile death which I may meet this mo- 
ment ? 
Whence this dishonor, but from thee, thou fiilse one? 

Jaf. All's true: yet grant one thing, and I've 
done asking. 

Pierre. What's that? 

Jaf. To take thy life on such conditions 
The council have jiroposed. Thou and thy friends 
May yet live long, and to be better treated. 

Pierre. Life ! — ask my life ! — confess ! — record 
myself 
A villain for the privilege to breathe, 
And carry up and down this cursed city 
A discontented and repining spirit, 
Burdensome to itself, a few j-ears longer! 
To lose it, may be, at last, in a lewd quarrel 
For some new friend, treacherous and false as thou 

art! 
No ! this vile world and I have long been jangling. 
And can not part on better terms than now. 
When only men like thee are fit to live in it. 

Jaf. By all that 's just — 

Pierre. Swear by some other power ; 
For thou hast broke that sacred oath too lately. 

Jaf. Then by that hell I merit, I '11 not leave thee 
Till to th3'self, at least, thou'rt reconciled. 
However thy resentments deal with me. 

Pierre. Not leave me ! 

Jaf. No : thou shalt not force me from thee. 



JAPFIER AND BELVIDERA. 249 

Use me reproachfull}' and like a slave ; 

Tread on me, buffet me, lieap wrongs on wrongs 

On my poor head : I '11 bear it all with patience ; 

Shall weary out thy most unfriendly cruelty ; 

Lie at thy feet, [falls on his knees'] and kiss them 

though they spurn me ; 
Till, wounded by my sufferings, thou relent. 
And raise me to thy arms Avith dear forgiveness. 

Pierre. Art thou not — 

Jaf. What? 

Pierre. A traitor? 

Jaf. Yes. 

Pierre. A villain? 

Jaf. Granted. 

Pierre. A coward — a most scandalous coward ? 
Spiritless ? void of honor ? one who has sold 
Thy everlasting fame for shameless life? 

Jaf. [Rising and turning, r.] All, all, and more, 
much more ; my faults are numberless. 

Pierre. And wouldst thou have me live on terms 
like thine? 
Base as thou 'rt false — 

Jaf. [lieturning'] No ; 't is to me that 's granted. 
The safety of thj'- life was all I aimed at. 
In recompense for faith and trust so broken. 

Pierre. I scorn it more because preserved by thee; 
And as when first my foolish heart took pity 
On thy misfortunes, sought thee in thj'- miseries, 
Eelieved thy wants, and raised thee from the state 
Of wretchedness in which thy fate had j^lunged thee, 
To rank thee in my list of noble friends ; 



250 JAFPIER AND BELVIDERA. 

All I received in surety for thy truth 
Were unregarded oaths, and this, this dagger, 
Given with a Avorthless pledge thou since hast stolen : 
So I restore it back to thee again, 
Swearing by all those powers which thou hast vio- 
lated, 
Never, from this cursed hour, to hold communion, 
Friendship, or interest with thee, though our years 
Wore to exceed those limited the world ! 
Take it — farewell — for now I owe thee nothing. 

Jaf. Say thou wilt live, then. 

Pierre. For ni}- life, dispose it 
Just as thou wilt, because 'tis what I'm tired with. 

Jaf. Oh, Pierre ! 

Pierre. No more. [^CToing^ r. 

Jaf. My ej^es won't lose the sight of thee, 

\_Following . 
But languish after thine, and ache with gazing. 

Pierre. Leave me ! Nay, then, thus, thus I throw 
thee from me ! 
And curses, great as is th}' falsehood, catch thee ! 

[^Drives him bach. Exit, r. 

Jaf. [Pausing'] He 's gone — my father, friend, 
preserver ; 
And here's the portion he has left me — 
This dagger. Well remembered! with this dagger 
I gave a solemn voav of dire importance: 
Parted w'ith this and Belvidera together. 
Have a care, memory ! drive that thought no farther! 
No, I '11 esteem it as a friend's last legacy ; 
Treasure it up within this wretched bosom 



JAFFIER AND BELVIDERA. 251 

Where it may grow acquainted with my heart, 
That, when they meet, they start not from each other. 
So, now for thinking. — A blow — called traitor, vil- 
lain, 
Coward, dishonorable coward — fliugh ! 
Oh, for a long, sound sleep, and so forget it! — 
Down, busy devil ! 

Enter Belvidera, l. 

Bel. (L.) Whither shall I fly? 
Where hide me and my miseries together? 
Where's now the Roman constancy I boasted? 
Sunk into trembling fears and desperation ; 
Not daring to look up to that dear face 
AVhich used to smile even on my faults; but down, 
Bending these miserable e^-es to earth, 
Must move in penance and implore much mercy. 

Jaf. (r. c.) Mercy! kind Heaven has surely end- 
less stores 
Hoarded for thee of blessings yet untasted : 
Let wretches loaded hard with guilt as I am. 
Bow with the weight, and groan beneath the burden, 
Before the footstool of that Heaven they've injured. 
Oh, Belvidera ! I 'm the wretchedest creature 
E'er craAvled on earth ! 

Bel. (l. c.) Alas! I know thy sorrows are most 
mighty. 

Jaf. M}' friend, too, Belvidera, that dear friend 
Who, next to thee, was all my heart rejoiced in. 
Has used me like a slave — shamefull}' used me : 



252 JAFriER AND BELVIDERA. 

'T would break thy pitying heart to hear the story. 

Bel. What has he done ? 

Jaf. Oh, my dear angel ! in that friend I 've lost 
All my soul's i)cace ; for every thought of him 
Strikes my sense hard, and deads it in my brain ! 
Wouldst thou believe it? 
Before we parted, 

Ere yet his guards had led him to his prison, 
Full of severest sorrows for his sufferings. 
As at his feet I kneeled and sued for mercy, 
With a repi'oachful hand he dashed a blow — 
He struck me, Belvidera ! by Heaven, he struck me, 
Buffeted, called mc traitor, villain, coAvard ! 
Am I a coward? am I a villain ? tell me : 
Thou 'rt the best judge, and mad'st me, if I am so ! 
Coward ! 

Bel. Oh, forgive him, Jaffier ! 
And if his sufferings wound thy heart already. 
What will the}' do to-morrow? 

Jaf. Ah ! 

Bel. To-morrow, 
When thou shalt sec him stretched in all the agonies 
Of a tormenting and a shameful death ! 
What will thy heart do then? Oh, sure 'twill stream 
Like ni}^ eyes now ! 

Jaf. What means thy dreadful story? 
Death and to-morrow ! 

Bel. (c.) The faithless senators, 'tis they've de- 
creed it : 
They say, according to our friends' request, 
They shall have death, and not ignoble bondage ; 



JAFFIER AND BELVIDERA. 253 

Declare their promised mercy all as forfeited: 
False to their oaths, and deaf to intercession, 
Warrants are passed for public death to-morrow. 
Jaf. Death ! doomed to die ! condemned unheard, 

unpleaded ! 
Bel. Nay, crudest racks and torments are pre- 
paring, 
To force confession fi'om their dying jjangs ! 
Oh, do not look so terribly upon me! 
HoAV your lips shake, and all your face disordered ! 
What means my love? 

Jaf. Leave me — I chai"ge thee, leave me ! Strong 
temjDtations 
Wake in my heart ! 
Bel (L.) For what? 
Jaf. No more, but leave me ! 
Bel. Why ? 

Jaf. (l. c.) Oh, by Heaven, I love thee with that 
fondness, 
I would not have thee stay a moment longer 
Near these cursed hands ! 

[^Pxdls the dagger half out of his bosom, and puts it 
back again. 
Art thou not terrified? 
Bel. No. 

Jaf. Call to mind 
What thou hast done, and whither thou hast brought 
me. 
Bel. Ha ! 

Jaf. Where's my friend — my friend, thou smil- 
ing mischief? 



254 JAFFIER AND BELVIDERA. 

Nay, shrink not, now 't is too late ; for dire revenge 
Is up, and raging for my friend ! — He groans ! 
Hark, how he groans ! His screams are in my ears ! 
Ah-eady, see, they 've fixed him on the wheel ! 
And now they tear him ! — Murder ! perjured senate ! 
Murder — oh ! Hark thee, traitoress, thou hast done 

this ! 
Thanks to thy tears and false, persuading love. 
HoAV her ej^es speak ! Oh, thou bewitching creature ! 
Madness can't hurt thee ! Come, thou little trembler, 
Creep even into my heart, and there lie safe ; 
'T is thy own citadel — ha ! yet stand off! [^Going, r. 
Heaven must have justice, and my broken vows 
"Will sink me else beneath its reaching mercy. 
I '11 wink, and then 'tis done ! — 

Bel. (c.) What means the lord 
Of me, my life, and lov(j? What is in thy bosom 
Thou graspest at so? 

[Jaffier draws the dagger^ and offers to stab her. 
Ah ! do not kill me, Jaffier ! 

Jaf. (r. c.) Know, Belvidera, when we parted last, 
I gave this dagger, with thee, as in trust, 
To be thy jiortion if I e'er proved false : 
On such condition was my truth believed ; 
But now 't is forfeited, and must be paid for. 

\_Offers to stab her again. 

Bel. Oh ! mercy ! 

Jaf. Nay, no struggling! 

Bel. Now, then, kill me, 

[^Falls on his neck and kisses him. 
While thus I cling about thy cruel neck, 



JAFFIER AND BELVIDERA. 255 

Kiss thy revengeful lips, and die in joys 
Greater tlian any I can guess hereafter. 

Jaf. 1 am, I am a coward ! witness, Heaven, 
Witness it, earth, and every being witness ! 
'T is but one blow ; yet, by immortal love, 
I can not longer bear the thought to harm thee ! 

[^Throws away the dagger and embraces her. 
The seal of Providence is sure upon thee, 
And thou wast born for yet unheard-of wonders : 
Oh, thou wert born either to save or damn me ! 
By all the power that is given thee o'er my soul, 
By thy resistless tears and conquering smiles. 
By the victorious love that still waits on thee, 
Fl}' to thy cruel father, save my friend, 
Or all our future quiet 's lost forever ! 
Fall at his feet, cling round his reverend knees, 
Speak to him with thy eyes, and with thy tears 
Melt his hard heart, and wake dead nature in him ; 
Nor, till thy prayers are gi-anted, set him free. 
But conquer him, as thou hast vanquished me. 

[Exeunt Jafpier, r., Belvidera, l. 



COSTUMES. 

DcKE. — Ci'imson velvet dress, with purple robe, richly em- 
broidered with gold. 

Prtuli. — Purple velvet di-ess; scarlet mantle; black trunks, 
pufied with black satin; black silk stockings; shoes and 
roses; black sword; round black hat, and black plumes. 

Jaffiek. — Same as Priuli, except mantle. 

Pierre, — White doublet and blue Venetian ily, embroidered; 



256 JAFFIER AND BELVIDERA. 

white pantaloons ; russet, boots; black sword ; round black 

hat, and scarlet plumes. 
Senatoes. — Black gowns, trimmed with ermine, and black caps. 
Conspirators. — Rich Venetian dresses. 
Guards. — Gray doublets, breeches, and hats. 
Belvidera. — First dress — white satin, trimmed with silver; 

long purple robe, richly embroidered with gold: second 

dress — white muslin. 



THE DUTIFUL SON. 257 



THE DUTIFUL SOK. 



From The Rivals^ by Sheridan. 



DRAMATIS PERSON/E. 

Sir Anthony Absolute. Captain Absolute, Ids son. 
Fag, Errand-boy. 



Scene I : — Captain Absolute's Lodgings. Enter 
Captain Absolute and Fag, r. 

Fag. Sir, there is a gentleman below desires to sec 
you. Shall I show him into the parlor? 

Capt. A. Ay, you may. — Stay ! who is it, Fag? 

Fag. Your father, sir. 

Capt. A. You pujDp}^ ! why did n't you show him 
up directly? \^Exit Fag, r.] Now for a parental 
lecture. I hope he has heard nothing of the business 
that has brought mc here. I wish the gout had held 
him fast in Devonshire, with all my soul ! 

Enter Sir Anthony, r. 

Sir, I am delighted to see you here, and looking so 
well ! Your sudden arrival at Bath made mc appre- 
hensive for your health. 
D. s.— 22. 



258 THE DUTIFUL SON. 

Sir A. Very apjjrehensive, I dare say, Jack ! — 
What, you are recruiting here, hey? 

Cajit. A. Yes, sir; I. am on duty. 

Sir A. Well, Jack, 1 'm glad to see you, though I 
did not expect it ; for I was going to write to you on 
a little matter of business. Jack, I have been con- 
sidering that I grow old and infirm, and shall proba- 
bly not trouble you long. 

Capt. A. Pardon me, sir, I never saw you look 
more strong and heart}" ; and I pray fervently that 
you may continue so. 

Sir A. I hope your ]5ra3^ers may be heard, with 
all my heart. Well, then, Jack, I have been consid- 
ering that I am so strong and hearty, I may continue 
to i)lague you a long time. Now, Jack, I am sensible 
that the income of your commission, and what I have 
hitherto allowed you, is but a small pittance for a lad 
of your spirit. 

Capt. A. Sir, you are very good. 

Sir A. And it is my wish, while yet I live, to have 
my boy make some figure in the world. I have re- 
solved, therefore, to fix j^ou at once in a noble inde- 
pendence. 

Capt. A. Sir, your kindness overpowers me. Yet, 
sir, I presume 3'ou would not wish mo to quit the 
army ? 

Sir A. Oh, that shall be as your wife chooses. 

Capt. A. My wife, sir! 

Sir A. Ay, ay ; settle that between you — settle 
that between you. 

Capt. A. A wife, sir, did you say? 



THE DUTIFUL SON. 259 

Sir A. Ay, ti wife! Wh}', did not I mention her 
before ? 

Capt. A. Not a word of her, sir. 

*SVr A. Odd so ! I mus' n't forget her, though. — 
Yes, Jack, the independence I was talking of, is by 
a marriage — the fortune is saddled with a wife : but 
I suppose that makes no difterence ? 

Capt. A. Sir, sir, you amaze me ! 

Sir A. Whj^, what the deuce is the matter with 
the fool? Just now you were all gratitude and duty. 

Capt. A. I was, sir: you talked to me of inde- 
pendence and a fortune, but not a word of a wife. 

Sir A. Wh}^ what difference does that make? 
Odds life, sir ! if you have the estate, }ou must take 
it with the live-stock on it, as it stands. 

Capt. A. Pra}', sir, who is the hidy? 

Sir A. What 's that to j^ou, sir? — Come, give mo 
your promise to love and to marr}- her directlj'. 

Caj)t. A. Sui-e, sir, this is not ver}- reasonable- — 
to summon my affections for a lady I knoAv nothing 
of! 

Sir A. I am sure, sir, 't is more unreasonable in 
you, to object to a lady you know nothing of. 

Capt. A. You must excuse me, sir, if I tell j'ou, 
once for all, that in this point I can not obey 3'ou. 

Sir A. Hark ye. Jack ! I have heard you for some 
time Avith patience; I have been cool ^ — quite cool; 
but take care ! You know I am comjiliance itself — 
when I am not thwarted ; no one more easily led — 
when I have m}- own way ; — but do n't put me in a 
frenzy ! 



260 THE DUTIFUL SON. 

Capt. A. Sir, I must repeat it: in this, I can not 
obe}' you. 

Sir A. Now, confound me if ever I call you Jack 
again while I live ! 

Cajpt. A. Nay, sir, but hear me. 

Sir A. Sir, I won't hear a word — not a word! 
not one word ! so give me your promise by a nod. 
And I'll tell you what, Jack — I mean, you dog — 
if 3"0U do n't, by — 

Cai^t. A. What, sir, promise to link myself to some 
mass of ugliness ! 

Sir A. Zounds, sirrah ! the lad}- shall be as ugly 
as I choose ! She shall have a hump on each shoul- 
der ; she shall be as crooked as the crescent ; her one 
C3'e shall roll like the bull's in the museum ; she shall 
have a skin like a mumni}^, and the beard of a Jew ! 
She shall be all this, sirrah, yet I'll make 3-ou ogle 
her all da}', and sit up all night to write sonnets on 
her beauty ! 

Caj)t. A. This is reason and moderation, indeed ! 

Sir. A. None of your sneering, puppy! — no grin- 
ning, jackanapes ! 

Capt. A. Indeed, sir, I never was in a worse humor 
for mirth in ni}- life. 

Sir A. 'T is false, sir ! I know you are laughing 
in your sleeve ! I know you '11 grin Avhen I am gone, 
sirrah ! 

Capt. A. Sir, I hope I know my duty better. 

Sir A. None of 3'our passion, sir ! none of your 
violence, if yoii please! — it won't do with me, I 
promise you. 



THE DUTIFUL SON. 261 

Capt. A. Indeed, sir, I never Avas cooler in my life. 

Sir A. 'T is u confounded lie ! I know 3'ou arc in 
n passion in j-our heart! I know you are, you hypo- 
critical young dog ! — but it won't do. 

Capt. A. Nay, sir, upon my word — 

Sir A. So, you will fl}' out! Can't you be cool, 
like me? What good can passion do? Passion is 
of no service, you impudent, insolent, overbearing 
reprobate ! — There, 3'Ou sneer again ! Do n't pro- 
voke me ! But you rely upon the mildness of my 
temper — you do, you dog ! you jjlay upon the meek- 
ness of my disposition ! Yet, take care ! the patience 
of a saint may be overcome at last. But, mark ! I 
give you six hours and a half to consider of this : if 
5-0U then agree, without any condition, to do every 
thing on earth that I choose, why, confound you, I 
may in time forgive you; if not — zounds! don't 
enter the same hemisphere with me I do n't dare to 
breathe the same air or use the same light with me, 
but get an atmosphere and a sun of your own ! I '11 
strip you of your commission ! I 11 lodge a five-and- 
threepence in the hands of trustees, and you shall 
live on the interest! I'll disown you — I '11 disinherit 
you — and, hang me, if ever I call you Jack again ! 

[^Exit, R. 

Capt. A. Mild, gentle, considerate father, I kiss 
your hands ! 

Enter Fag. r. 

Fag. Assuredly, sir, our father is wroth to a 
degree. He comes down stairs eight or ten steps 



262 THE DUTIFUL SON. 

at a time, muttering, growling, and thumping the 
banisters all the way. I and the cook's dog stand 
bowing at the door — rap! he gives me a stroke on 
tlie head with his cane — bids me carry that to my 
master ; then, kicking the poor turnspit into the area, 
damns us all for a pappy triumvirate ! Upon my 
credit, sir, were I in your place, and found my father 
such very bad compan}-, I .should certainly drop his 
acquaintance. 

Capt. A. Cease your impertinence, sir ! did you 
come in for nothing more? Stand out of the way ! 
[^Pushes him aside, and exit, r. 

Fag. So ! — Sir Anthony trims ni}' master; he is 
afraid to reply to his father, then vents his spleen on 
poor Fag ! AVhen one is vexed by one person, to re- 
venge one's self on another, Avho happens to come in 
the way, shows the worst of temper, the basest — 

Enter Errand-boy, r. 

Boy. 3Ir. Fag! Mr. Fag! your master calls you. 

Fag. Well, you little, dirty puppy ! you need n't 
baAvl so — the meanest disposition, the — 

Boy. Quick, quick, Mr. Fag ! 

Fag. Quick, quick — you impudent jackanapes! 
Am I to be commanded by you, too, you little, im- 
pertinent, insolent kitchen-bred ! \_Kicks him off, r. 

Scene II : — The Same. Enter Captain Absolute, l. 

Caj)t. A. 'T is just as Fag told me, indeed — whim- 
sical enough, faith ! My father wants to force me to 



THE DUTIFUL SON. 263 

many the very girl I am plotting to run away with ! 
He must not know of my connection with her yet 
awhile ; he has too summarj' a method of proceeding 
in these matters. However, I'll read my recantation 
instantly. My conversion is something sudden, in- 
deed ; but I can assure him it is very sincere. So, 
so; here he comes. He looks plaguy gruff! 

l_Steps aside^ l. 

I^rifcr Sir Anthony, r. 

Sir A. No — I'll die sooner than forgive him! 
Die, did I say? I'll live these fifty years to plague 
him! At our last meeting, his impudence had almost 
put me out of temper — an obstinate, passionate, self- 
willed boy! Who can he take after? This is my 
return for putting him, at twelve yeai'S old, into a 
marching regiment, and allowing him fiftj' pounds a 
year, besides his pa}', ever since. But I have done 
with him ; he 's any body's son for mc ; I never will 
see him more — never, never, never, never! 

Capt. A. Now for a penitential face ! 

\_Com.es forward on the l. 

Sir A. Fellow, get out of my way ! \_Crosses, r. 

Capt. A. Sir, you see a penitent before you. 

Sir A. I see an impudent scoundrel before me! 

Capt. A. A sincere penitent. I am come, sir, to 
acknowledge my error, and to submit entirely to 
your will. 

Sir A. What's that? 

Ca2)t. A. I have been revolving and reflecting and 



264 THE DUTIFUL SON. 

considering on j^our ptist goodness and kindness and 
condescension to me. 

Sir A. Well, sir? 

Capf. A. I have been likewise weighing and bal- 
ancing what you were pleased to mention concerning 
duty and obedience and authority. 

Sir A. Why, now 3-ou talk sense, absolute sense : 
I never heard any thing more sensible in my life. 
Confound you, you shall be Jack again ! 

Capf. A. I am happy in the appellation. 

*SV7' A. Why, then, Jack — m}' dear Jack — I will 
now inform you Avho the lady really is. Nothing 
but your passion and violence, you silly fellow, pre- 
vented iiie telling 30U at first. Prepare, Jack, for 
wonder and rapture — prepare! What think you 
of Miss Lj^lia Languish? 

Cajyt. A. Languish ! What, the Languishes of 
Worcestershire? 

Sir A. Worcestershire ! — no. Did j-ou never meet 
Mrs. Malaprop, and her niece, Miss Languish, Avho 
came into our country just before 3'ou were last or- 
dered to 3'our regiment? 

Capt. A. Malaprop ! — Languish ! I do n't remem- 
ber ever to have heard the name before. — Yet, stay ! 
I think I do recollect something. Languish ! — Lan- 
guish ! She squints, don't she? — A little red-haired 
girl? 

Sir A. Squints !• — A red-haired girl ! Zounds ! — 
no ! 

Capt. A. Then I must have foi'got : it can't be the 
same person. 



THE DUTIFUL SON. 265 

Sir A. Jack, Jack ! what think you of blooming, 
love-breathing seventeen ? 

Capt. A. As to that, sir, I am quite indifferent: 
if 1 can please you in the matter, 'tis all I desire. 

Sir A. Nay, but Jack, such eyes ! such eyes ! — 
so innocently wild! so bashfully irresolute! — not a 
glance but speaks and kindles some thought of love ! 
Then, Jack, her cheeks ! — her cheeks. Jack ! so 
deeply blushing at the insinuations of her tell-tale 
eyes ! Then, Jack, her lips ! — Oh, Jack, lips smiling 
at their own discretion ! and, if not smiling, more 
sweetly pouting — more lovely in sullenness ! Then, 
Jack, her nock ! — Oh, Jack ! Jack ! 

Capt. A. And Avhich is to be mine, sir — the niece 
or the aunt ? 

Sir A. Wh}', you unfeeling, insensible puppy! — 
I despise you ! When I was of your age, such a de- 
scription Avould have made me ^y like a rocket ! — 
The aunt, indeed ! Odds life ! When I ran away 
with your mother, I would not have touched any 
thing old or ugly to gain an empire ! 

Capt. A. Not to please your father, sir? 

Sir A. To please my father! — zounds! not to 
please — Oh! my father? Odd so! yes, yes! if my 
father, indeed, had desii'cd — that's quite another 
matter. Though he was n't the indulgent father that 
I am. Jack. 

Capt. A. I dare say not, sir. 

Sir A. But, Jack, you are not sorry to find j-oui- 
mistress is so beautiful ? 

Capt. A. Sir, I repeat it — if I please you in this 

]). S.— 2V 



266 THE DUTIFUL SON. 

affair, 't is all I desire. Not that I think a woman 
the AVor.se for being handsome; but, sir, if 3^011 please 
to recollect, you before hinted something about a 
hump or two, one eye, and a few more graces of that 
kind. Now, without being very nice, I own I should 
rather choose a wife of mine to have the usual num- 
ber of limbs, and a limited quantity of back : and 
though one eye may be very agreeable, yet, as the 
prejudice has always run in favor of two, I avouM 
not wish to affect a singularit}^ in that article. 

Sir A. What a phlegmatic sot it is ! Wh}', sirrah, 
you are an anchorite ! — a vile, insensible stock ! 
You a soldier ! you 're a walking block, fit only to 
dust the company's regimentals on ! — Odds life ! 
I've a great mind to marry the girl myself! 

Capt. A. I am entirely at your disjjosal, sir. If 
you should think of addressing Miss Languish your- 
self, I suppose you would have me marry the aunt ; 
or, if you should change your mind, and take the 
old lady, 'tis the same to me — I '11 marry the niece. 

Sir A. Upon my word. Jack, thou art either a 
very great hypocrite, or — but, come ; I know your 
indifference on such a subject miist be all a lie — I'm 
sure it must. Come, now — come, confess. Jack : 
you have been lying, ha'n't you? you have been 
l^lajnng the hypocrite, hey? I '11 never forgive j'^ou, 
if you ha'n't been Ijnng and playing the hjqiocrite. 

Capf. A. I am sorry, sir, that the respect and 
duty which I bear to you should be so mistaken. 

Sir A. Hang your respect and duty ! —But come 
along with me. \_Ci'OSses to l.'] I'll write a note to 



THE DUTIFUL SON. 267 

Mrs. JVtalaprop, and j^ou shall visit the lady directl}-. 
Her eyes shall be the Promethean torch to 3'ou. 
Come along: I'll never forgive you, if j'ou don't 
come back stark mad with rapture and impatience! 
If 3'ou don't, egad, I'll marry the girl myself! 

[^Exeunt, l. 

COSTUMES. 

Sir Anthony Absolute. — Light brown cloth suit, lined with 
crimson silk, and gold buttons ; a brown great-coat, black 
silk plush cuff's and collar, and gold vellum button-holes ; 
cocked hat, gold loop and cockade; white silk stockings; 
square-toed shoes, and buckles. 

Captain Absolute. — Scarlet regimental full-dress coat; white 
breeches; silk stockings; cocked hat. 

Fag. — Dark livery frock; buff waistcoat and breeches; glazed 
hat, with cockade and silver band; top boots. 



268 THE POUND OF FLESH. 



THE POUND OF FLESH. 



From Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice. 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 

The Duke of Venice. 

Magnificoes of Venice. 

Antonio, the Merchant of Venice. 

Bassanio, his friend. 

Gratiano, friend to Antonio and Bassanio. 

SiiYLOCK, a Jeiu. 

Portia, a rich heiress. 

Nerissa, her zoaitinff-maid. 

Officers of the Court of Justice, 

Jailer, Servants, and other Attendants. 



Scene : — A Court of Justice in Venice. The Duke, 
the Magnificoes, Antonio, Bassanio, Gratiano, 
and Attendants, discovered. 

Dulce. \_Seated, c] What, is Antonio here? 
Ant. Readj'-, so please your grace. 
Duke. I am soriy for thee : thon art come to an- 
swer 
A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch 



THE POUND OF FLESH. 269 

Incapable of pit}^, void unci empty 
From any dram of mercy. 

Ant. ■ I have heard 

Your grace hath ta'cn great pains to qualify 
His rigorous course; but since he stands obdurate, 
And that no lawful means can carry me 
Out of his envy's reach, I do oppose 
My patience to his fnry, and am armed 
To suffer, with a quietness of spirit, 
The very tyranny and rage of his. 

Duke. Go one, and call the Jew into the court. 

Servant. He is ready at the door : he comes, ni}^ 
lord. 

Eyiter Shylock, r. 

Duke. Make room, and let him stand before our 
face. 
Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so, too, 
That thou but lead'st this fashion of thj^ malice 
To the last hour of act, and then, 'tis thought. 
Thou 'It show thy mercy and remorse, moi'e strange 
Than is thy strange apparent cruelty ; 
And where thou now exact'st the penalty, 
Which is a pound of this poor merchant's flesh, 
Thou wilt not only loose the forfeiture. 
But. touched with human gentleness and love. 
Forgive a moiety of the principal ; 
Glancing an eye of pity on his losses. 
That have of late so huddled on liis back, 
Enow to press a royal merchant down, 



270 ■ THE POUND OF FLESH. 

And pluck commiseriition of his state 

From brass}' bosoms and rough liearts of flint; 

From stubborn Turks and Tartars, never trained 

To offices of tender courtesy. — 

We all exjiect a gentle answer, Jew. 

Shy. (r.) I have possessed j^our grace of what I 
purpose ; 
And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn 
To have the due and forfeit of my bond: 
If you deii}" it, let the danger light 
Upon your charter and yowY city's freedom. 
You '11 ask me why I rather choose to have 
A. weight of carrion flesh, than to receive 
Three thousand ducats. I '11 not answer that ; 
But saj'", it is my humor : is it answered? 
What if my house be troubled with a rat, 
And I be pleased to give ten thousand ducats 
To have it baned? What, are you answered yet? 
Some men there are love not a gaping pig; 
Some that are mad if they behold a cat: 
Masters of passion sway it to the mood 
Of what it likes or loathes. Now for your answer : 
As there is no firm reason to be rendered 
Why he can not abide a gaping pig, 
Why he, a harmless, necessary eat, 
So can I give no reason, nor I will not, 
More than a lodged hate and a certain loathing 
I bear Antonio, that I follow thus 
A losing suit against him. Are 3'ou answered? 

Bass. (l. c.) This is no answer, thou unfeeling man, 
To excuse the current of thy cruelty. 



THE POUND OP FLESH. 271 

Shy. I am not bound to please thee with my an- 
swers. 

Bass. Do all men kill the things they do not love? 

Shy. Hates an}' man the thing he would not kill? 

Bass, Every oifense is not a hate at first. 

Shy.- What, wouldst thou have a serpent sting 
thee twice? 

Ant. (h. c.) I pray you, think you question with 
the Jew. 
You may as well go stand upon the beach. 
And bid the main flood bate his usual height; 
You may as Avell use question with the wolf, 
Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb; 
YoLi may as well forbid the mountain 2>ines 
To wag their high tops, and to make no noise, 
When they are fretten with the gusts of Heaven: 
You may as well do any thing most hard. 
As seek to soften that — than which, what harder — 
His Jewish heart. Therefore, I do beseech you, 
Make no more offers, use no farther means ; 
But with all brief and plain convcniency. 
Let me have judgment, and the Jew his will. 

Bass. For thy three thousand ducats, here is six. 

Shy. If every ducat in six thousand ducats 
Were in six parts, and every part a ducat, 
I would not draw them ; I would have my bond. 

Duke How shalt thou hope for mercy, rendering 
none ? 

Shy. What judgment shall I dread, doing no 
wrong ? 
You have among you many a purchased slave, 



272 THE POUND OF FLESH. 

Which, like your asses and your dogs and mules, 
You use in abject and in slavish parts. 
Because you bought them : shall I say to you, 
Let them be free, marry them to your heirs? 
AV^hy sweat they under burdens? let their beds 
Be made as soft as yours, and let their palates 
Be seasoned with such viands. — You will answer, 
The slaves are ours. So do I answer j'ou : 
The pound of flesh, which I demand of him, 
Is dearly bought; 'tis mine, and I will have it. 
If you deny me, fie u])on your law ! 
There is no force in the decrees of Venice. 
I stand for judgment: answer, shall I have it? 

Duke. Upon my power I may dismiss this court, 
Unless Bellario, a learned doct;)i- 
Whom I have sent for to determine this, 
Come here to-day. 

Gra. My lord, here stays without 

A messenger with letters from the doctor, 
New come from Padua. 

Duke. Bring us the letters ; call the messenger. 

[^E.rit Gratiano, r. 

Bass. Good cheer, Antonio ! What, man, courage 
yet! 
The Jew shall have mj' flesh, blood, bones, and all, 
Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood. 

Ant. I am a tainted wether of the flock, 
Meetest for death. The weakest kind of fruit 
Drops earliest to the ground ; and so let me. 
You can not better be employed, Bassanio, 
Than to live still and write mine epitaph. 



THE POUND OF FLESH. 273 

Enter Gratiano with Nerissa, dressed like a Lawyefs 
Clerk, R., and goes to the Duke. 

Duke. Came you from Padua, from Bellario? 
Ner. From both, my lord. Bellario greets your 
grace. [Presents a letter. Shylock kneels on 
one knee, and ivhets his knife on his shoe. 
Bass. "Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly ? 
Shy. To cut the forfeiture from that bankrupt 

there. 
Gra. Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh Jew, 
Thou mak'st thy knife keen. But no metal can — 
No, not the hangman's ax — bear half the keenness 
Of thy sharp envy. Can no prayers ^^ierce thee? 
Shy. \_Gets ?//>] No, none that thou hast wit enough 

to make. 
Gra. (r. c.) Oh, be thou damned, inexorable dog! 
And for thy life let justice be accused I 
Thou almost mak'st me waver in my faith, 
To hold opinion with Pj-thagoras, 
That souls of animals infuse themselves 
Into the trunks of men. Thy currish spirit 
Governed a wolf, who, hanged for human slaughter. 
Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet ; 
And Avhilst thou lay'st in thy unhallowed dam. 
Infused itself in thee ; for thy desires 
Are wolfish, bloody, starved, and ravenous ! 

Shy. (r. c.) [Holding up the bond, and tapping if ni'th 
the knife'] Till thou canst rail the seal from off 
my bond, 
Thou but offend'st thy lungs to speak so loud. 



274 THE POUND OP FLESH. 

Reimir thy wit, good 3'outh, or it will fall 
To endless ruin. — I stand here for law. 

JDuke. This letter from Bellario doth commend 
A young and learned doctor to our court. 
Where is he? 

Ner. He attendeth here hard by, 

To know your answer, Avhether you'll admit him. 

Duke. With all my heart. — Some three or four 
of you 
Go give him courteous conduct to this jjlace. 

\_Exit Gratiano and others, r. 
Meantime, the court shall hear Bellario's letter. 

Ner. \_Ileads'\ " Your grace shall understand, that 
at the receipt of your letter I am very sick : but in 
the instant that your messenger came, in loving 
visitation was with me a young doctor of Rome ; 
his name is Balthazar. I acquainted him with the 
cause in controversy between the Jew and Antonio, 
the merchant: we turned o'er many books together : 
he is furnished with my opinion, which, bettered 
with his own learning, the greatness whereof I can 
not enough commend, comes with him, at my impor- 
tunity, to fill up your grace's request in my stead. 
I beseech you, let his lack of j^eai'S be no impediment, 
to let him lack a reverend estimation ; for I never 
knew so young a body with so old a head. I leave 
him to your gracious acceptance, whose trial shall 
better publish his commendation." 

Duke. You hear the learned Bellario, Avhat he 
writes ; 
And here, I take it, is the doctor come. 



THE POUND OF FLESH. 275 

Enter Portia, dressed like a Doctor of Laws : Gr atiano, 
R. Portia, advancing to c, hows to the Court, and 
then approaches toward the Buke. 

Give me your hand. Came you from old Bellario? 

For. I did, my loi'd. 

Duke. You are welcome. Take your place. 

[Portia sits. 
Are you acquainted with the difference 
That holds this present question in the court ? 

For. I am informed thoroughly of the cause. 
Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew? 

Duke. Antonio and old Shj^lock, both stand forth. 
[ Tliey stand forth. Portia in c. of stage. 

For. Is your name Shylock? 

Shy. Shylock is my name. 

For. Of a strange nature is the suit j^ou follow ; 
Yet in such rule, that the Venetian law 
Can not imipugn j'^ou as you do proceed. — 
[To Ant.] You stand within his danger, do you not? 

Ant. Ay, so he says. 

For. Do you confess the bond? 

Ant. I do. 

For. Then must the Jew be merciful. 

Shy. On what compulsion must I ? tell me that. 

For. The quality of mercy is not strained ; 
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven 
Upon the place beneath : it is twice blest — 
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes : 
'T is mightiest in the mightiest : it becomes 
The throned monarch better than his crown : 



276 THE POUND OF FLESH. 

His scepter shows the force of temi:)oral power, 

The attribute to awe and majesty, 

"VVlierein dotli sit the dread and fear of kings. 

But mercy is above this sceptcred sway : 

It is enthi'oned in the hearts of kings: 

It is an attribute to God himself; 

And earthly power doth then show likest Gods, 

When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 

Though justice be thy plen, consider this. 

That, in the course of justice, none of us 

Should see salvation : we do pray for mercy. 

And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 

The deeds of mere}'. I have spoke thus much 

To mitigate the justice of thy plea. 

Which, if thou follow, this strict court of Venice 

Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there. 

Shy. My deeds upon my head ! I crave the law ; 
The penalty and forfeit of my bond. 

Por. Is he not able to discharge the money? 

Bass. Yes : here I tender it for him in the court — 
Yea, twice the sum : if that will not suffice, 
I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er. 
On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart: 
If this Avill not suffice, it must appear 
That malice bears down truth ; and, I beseech 3'ou, 
Wrest once the law to your authority : 
To do a great right, do a little wrong. 
And curb this cruel devil of his will. 

Por. It must not be : there is no power in Venice 
Can alter a decree established. 
'T will be recorded for a precedent, 



THE POUND OP PLESH. 277 

And many an error, by the same example, 
"Will rush into the state. It can not be. 

Shy. \In ecstasy'] A Daniel come to judgment! — 
yea, a Daniel ! 
Oh, wise young judge, how do I honor thee! 

For. . I pray you, let me look ujjon the bond. 

Shy. Here 't is, most reverend doctor ; here it is. 

IGives it. 

For. Shylock, there 's thrice thy money offered 
thee. 

Shy. An oath, an oath : I have an oath in Heaven. 
Shall I lay perjury upon my soul? 
'No, not for Venice ! 

For. Why, this bond is forfeit; 

And lawfull}' b}' this the Jew may claim 
A pound of flesh, to be hy him cut oif 
Nearest the merchant's heart. — Be merciful : 
Take thrice thy money ; bid me tear the bond. 

Shy. When it is paid according to the tenor. 
It doth appear you are a worthy judge : 
You know the law ; your exposition 
Hath been most sound. I charge you by the law, 
Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar. 
Proceed to judgment. B}^ my soul I swear, 
There is no power in the tongue of man 
To alter me ! I stay here on my bond. 

Ant. Most heartily I do beseech the court 
To give the judgment. 

For. Why, then, thus it is : 

You must prepare your bosom for his knife ; — 

Shy. O noble judge ! O excellent young man ! 



278 THE POUND OF FLESH. 

For. — For the intent and purpose of the laAV 
Hath full relation to the penalty 
Which here appeareth due upon the bond. 

Shy. 'T is very true, O wise and upright judge ! 
How much more elder art thou than thy looks ! 

For. Therefore, lay bare 3'our bosom. 

Shy. Ay, his breast; 

So says the bond : — doth it not, noble judge? — 
Nearest his heart : those are the very woi-ds. 

For. It is so. Are there balance here to weigh 
The flesh? 

Shy. I have them ready. 

For. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on j^our 
charge. 
To stop his wounds, lest he should bleed to death. 

Shy. It is not nominated in the bond. 

For. It is not so exjiressed ; but what of that? 
'Twerc good you do so much for charity. 

Shy. I can not find it: 'tis not in the bond. 

For. Come, merchant, have jow any thing to say? 

Ant. But little : I am armed and well prepared. 
Give me your hand, Bassanio : fare you well ! 
Grieve not that I am fallen to this for 3'ou ; 
For herein Fortune shows herself more kind 
Than is her custom: it is still her use 
To let the wretched man outlive his Avealth ; 
To view with hollow eye and wrinkled brow 
An age of poverty : from which lingering penance 
Of such misery doth she cut me off. 
Commend me to your honorable wife; 
Tell her the process of Antonio's end; 



THE POUND OF FLESH. 279 

Say how I loved 3^011 ; speak me fiiir in death : 
And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge 
Whether Bassanio had not once a love. 
Repent not you that you shall lose your friend ; 
And he rejients not that he pays your debt : 
For if the Jew do cut but deep enough, 
I '11 pay it instantly with all my heart. 

Bass. Antonio, I am married to a Avife 
Which is as dear to me as life itself; 
But life itself, my wife, and all the world. 
Are not with me esteemed above thy life : 
I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all 
Here to this devil, to deliver you. 

For. Your wife would give you little thanks for 
that. 
If she were by, to hear you make the offer. 

Gra. I have a wife, whom, I protest, I love : 
I would she were in Heaven, so she could 
Entreat some power to change this currish Jew. 

Wer. 'T is well you offer it behind her back : 
The wish would make, else, an unquiet house. 

Shif. \_Aside'\ These be the Christian husbands ! I 
have a daughter : 
Would any of the stock of Barrabas 
Had been her husband, rather than a Christian ! 
[ To Portia] We trifle time : I pray thee, pursue 
sentence. 

Po?'. A pound of that same merchant's flesh is 
thine : 
The court awards it, and the law doth give it. 

Shy. Most rightful judge ! 



280 THE POUND OF FLESH. 

For. And yoii must cut this flesh from off his 
breast : 
The law allows it, and the court awards it. 

Shy. Most learned judge ! — A sentence ! — Come, 
prepare ! 

For. Tarry a little : there is something else. 
This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood : 
The words ex^iressly are, a pound of flesh. 
Take, then, thy bond — take thou thy j^ound of flesh : 
But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed 
One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods 
Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate 
Unto the state of Venice. 

Gra. (r.) O upright judge! — Mark, Jew! — O 
learned judge ! 

Shy. Is that the law ? 

For. Thyself shalt sec the act : 

For, as thou urgest justice, be assured 
Thou shalt have justice — more than thou desirest. 

Gra. O learned judge ! — Mark, Jew ! — A learned 
judge ! 

Shy. I take this offer, then : paj^ the bond thrice. 
And let the Christian go. 

Bass. Here is the money. 

For. Soft ! 
The Jew shall have all justice ; — soft ! — no haste : 
He shall have nothing but the penalty. 

Gra. O Jew ! — An upright judge I a learned judge ! 

For. Therefore, prepare thee to cut off the flesh. 
Shed thou no blood ; nor cut thou less nor more 
But just a pound of flesh : if thou tok'st more 



THE POUND OF FLESH. 281 

Or less than a just pound, be it so much 

As makes it light or heavj^ in the substance 

Or the division of the twentieth part 

Of one poor scruple — nay, if the scale do turn 

But in the estimation of a hair — 

Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate. 

Gra. A second Daniel ! — a Daniel, Jew ! 
Now, infidel, I have thee on the hij) ! 

Por. Why doth the Jew pause ? — Take thy for- 
feiture. 

Shy. Give me m}' principal, and let me go. 

Bass. I have it ready for thee : here it is. 

Por. He hath refused it in the open court: 
He shall have merely justice, and his bond. 

Gra. A Daniel, still say I — a second Daniel! 
I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word. 

Shy. Shall I not have barely my principal ? 

Por. Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture, 
To be so taken at thy peril, Jew. 

Shy. Why, then, the devil give him good of it! 
I '11 stay no longer question. 

Por. Tarry, Jew : 

The law hath yet another hold on you. 
It is enacted in the laws of Venice, 
If it be proved against an alien, 
That, by direct or indirect attempts. 
He seek the life of any citizen. 
The party 'gainst the which he doth contrive 
Shall seize one-half his goods ; the other half 
Comes to the privy coffer of the state ; 
And the ofi'ender's life lies in the mei'cy 
u. S.— 24. 



282 THE POUND OP FLESH. 

Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice. 
In which predicament, I say, thou stand'st : 
P^'or it apjDcars, by manifest proceeding. 
That indirectly, and directly, too, 
Thou hast contrived against the very life 
Of the defendant ; and thou hast incurred 
The danger formerly by me rehearsed. 
Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the duke ! 

Gra. Beg that thou mayst have leave to hang 
thyself: 
And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state. 
Thou hast not left the value of a cord ; 
Therefore, thou must be hanged at the state's charge. 

Duke. That thou shalt see the ditference of our 
spirit, 
I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it. 
For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's ; 
The other half comes to the general state, 
Which humbleness may drive unto a fine. 

For. Ay, for the state ; not for Antonio. 

Shy. Nay, take my life and all ; pardon not that : 
You take my house when you do take the prop 
That doth sustain my house ; you take my life 
When you do take the means whereby I live. 

Por. What mercy can you render him, Antonio? 

Ant. So please ni}^ lord the duke and all the court, 
To quit the fine for one-half of his goods 
I am content, so he will let me have 
The other half in use, to render it. 
Upon his death, unto the gentleman 
That lately stole his daughter: 



I 



THE POUND OF FLESH. 283 

Two things provided more — that, for this favor, 

He presently become a Christian; 

The other, that he do record a gift. 

Here in the court, of all he dies possessed, 

Unto his son Lorenzo and his daughter. 

Duke. He shall do this, or else I do recant 
The pardon that I late pronounced here. 

For. Art thou contented, Jew? what dost thou say? 

Shy. I am content. 

For. Clerk, draw a deed of gift. 

Shy. I pray you, give me leave to go from hence : 
I am not well. Send the deed after me. 
And I will sign it. 

Duke. Get thee gone, but do it. 

[J 5 Shylock sloicly leaves the stage, r., the 
curtain descends. 



COSTUMES. 

DrKE. — Crimson velvet jacket and breeches; purple robe; 
ermine cape; white shoes with crimson rosettes. 

Antonio. — Black velvet trunks, puffed with black satin; black 
silk stockings; shoes and rosettes; round black hat, and 
black plumes. 

Bassanio. — White tunic, trimmed with silver; blue satin waist- 
coat, embroidered ; blue sash belt ; white silk stocking pan- 
taloons; white shoes with rosettes. 

Gratiano. — Green velvet coat; white waistcoat; buff worsted 
pantaloons; russet boots. 

SiiYLOCK. — Black cloth gabardine, or long, flowing cloak; scarlet 
sash; blue stockings; black shoes with buckles. 

Portia. — Black silk stockings, black tunic, and lawyer's gown. 

Nerissa. — Same as Portia, but no gown. 



284 THE BEQUEST. 



THE BEQUEST. 



From Bulwer^s Money. 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 

Alfred Evelyn. Graves. 

Sir John Vesey. Captain Dudley Smooth. 

Lord Glossmore. Sharp. 

Sir Frederick Blount. Clara Douglas. 

Stout. Lady Franklin. 
Georgina, 



Scene I: — A draxdng-room in Sir John Yesey's 
house; folding doors at the bach-, ichich open on 
another drawing-room. To the right, a table with 
newspapers, books, etc. ; to the left, a sofa and 
writing-table. Sir John and Georgina, r. c. 

Sir J. \_Reading a letter edged with black'] Yea, he 
says at two precisely. — "Dear Sir John: As since 
the death of my sainted Maria" — lium ! that's liis 
wife : she made him a martyr, and now he makes 
her a saint ! 

Geor. Well, as since her death ? — 

Sir J. [^Reading'] " I have been living in chambers, 



THE BEQUEST. 285 

where I can not so well invite ladies, yoii will allow 
me to bring Mr. Sharp, the lawyer, to read the will 
of the late Mr. Mordaunt, (to Avhich I am appointed 
executor,) at your house — your daughter being the 
nearest relation. I shall be with you at two pre- 
cisely. Henry Graves." 

Geor. And you really feel sui'e that poor Mr. 
Mordaunt has made me his heiress? 

Sir J. A}', the richest heiress in England. Can 
you doubt it? arc you not his nearest relation? — 
niece by your poor mother, his own sister. I feel 
that I may trust you with a secret. You sec this 
fine house, our fine servants, our fine plate, our fine 
dinners: — every one thinks Sir John Vesey a rich 
man. 

Geor. And are you not, papa? 

Sir J. Not a bit of it — all humbug, child; all 
humbug, upon my soul ! There are two rules in life : 
first, men are valued not for what ihej are, but what 
they seem to be; secondl}^, if you have no merit or 
monej^ of 5'our own, you must trade on the merits 
and money of other people. M}^ father got the title 
by services in the army, and died penniless. On the 
sti'cngth of his services, I got a pension of £400 a 
year; on the strength of £400 a year, I took credit 
for £800 ; on the strength of £800 a year, I married 
your mother, with £10,000 ; on the strength of 
£10,000, I took credit for £40,000, and paid Dickey 
Gossip three guineas a week to go about every- 
where calling me " Stingy Jack." 

Geor. Ha! ha! — a disagreeable nickname. 



286 THE BEQUEST. 

Sir J. But a valuable reputation. When a man 
is called stingy, it is as much as calling him rich; 
and Avhen a man 's called rich, why, he 's a man uni- 
versally respected. On the strength of my respecta- 
bility, I wheeled a constituency, changed my j^olitics, 
resigned my seat to a minister, who, to a man of such 
stake in the country, could offer nothing less in return 
than a jiatent office of £2,000 a year. That 's the way 
to succeed in life. Humbug, my dear ! — all humbug, 
upon my soul ! 

Geor. I must say that you — 

Sir J. Know the world? — to be sure. Now, for 
your fortune, as I spend all that I have, I can have 
nothing to leave j'ou : 3'et, even without counting 
your uncle, you have always passed for an heiress, 
on the credit of your expectations from the savings 
of " Stingy Jack." The same with your education : 
I never grudged any thing to make a show; never 
stuffed your head Avith histories and homilies ; but 
you draw, you sing, you dance, j^ou walk well into 
a room; and that's the way young ladies are edu- 
cated, nowadays, in order to become a pride to 
their parents and a blessing to their hussband — that 
is. when they have cauglit him. Apropos of a hus- 
band, you know we thought of Sir Frederick Blount. 

Geor. Ah, papa, he is charming! 

Sir J. He teas so, my dear, before we knew your 
poor uncle was dead ; but an heiress, such as j-ou 
will be, should look out for a duke. — Where the 
deuce is Evelyn this morning? 

Geor. I 've not seen him, papa. What a strange 



THE BEQUEST. 287 

character he is! — so sarcastic! and yet he can be 
agreeable. 

Si?' J. A humorist — a cynic! one never knows 
how to take him. My private secretary ; a poor 
cousin; has not got a shilling; and yet, hang me, 
if he docs not keep us all at a sort of a distance. 

Geor. But why do you take him to live with us, 
papa, since there 's no good to be got by it? 

Sir J. There you are Avrong : he has a great 
deal of talent : — prepares my si^eeches, writes my 
pamphlets, looks up my calculations. Besides, he is 
our cousin — he has no salarj-. Kindness to a poor 
relation always tells well in the world ; and benevo- 
lence is a useful virtue — particularly when j^ou can 
have it for nothing. With our other cousin, Clara, 
it was different : her father thought fit to leave me 
her guardian, though she had not a penny — a mere 
useless incumbrance: so, 3'ou see, I got my half- 
sister, Ladj'' Franklin, to take her off my hands. 

Geor. How much longer is Lady Franklin's visit 
to be ? 

Sir J. I do n't know, my dear : the longer, the 
better ; for her husband left her a good deal of money 
at her own disposal. — Ah! here she comes. 

Enter Lady Franklin and Clara, r. 

My dear sister, we were just loud in your praise. 
But how's this? — not in mourning? 

Lady F. Why should I go into mourning for a 
man I never saw ? 



288 THE BEQUEST. 

Sir J. Still there may be a legacy. 

Jjady F. Then there '11 be less cause for affliction. 

[Betires np a little. 

Sir J. lAside'] Yery silly woman ! — But, Clara, I 
see you are more attentive to the proj^er decorum : 
yet 3'ou ai*e very, very, very distantly connected witli 
the deceased — a third cousin, I think. 

Clara. Mr. Mordaunt once assisted my father, and 
these i)Oor robes are all the gratitude I can show him. 

Sir J. [Aside^ Gratitude ! humph ! I am afraid 
the minx has got expectations. 

Lady F. So, Mr. Graves is the executor : the will 
is addi-essed to him? The same Mr. Graves who is 
always in black — always lamenting his ill fortune 
and his sainted Maria, who led him the life of a dog? 

Sir J. The very same. His liveries are black ; 
his carriage is black ; he always rides a black gallo- 
way ; and, faith, if he ever marry again, I think he 
will show his respect to the sainted Maria by marry- 
ing a black woman ! 

Lady F. Ha, ha ! we shall see. [J-SiVZe] Poor 
Graves ! I always liked him : he made an excellent 
husband. 

Enter Evelyn, icho seats himself, n. c, and takes up a 
hook, unobserved. 

Sir J. \Yhat a crowd of relations this will brings 
to liglit: Mr. Stout, the political economist; Lord 
Glossmore — 

Jjady F. Whose grandfather kept a paAvnbroker's 



THE BEQUEST. 289 

shop, and who, accordingly, entertains the profound- 
cst contempt for every thing popular, parvenu, and 
plebeian. 

Sir J. Sir Frederick Blount — 

Jjady F. Sir Fwedewick Blount, you mean, who 
objects to the letter r as being too tt'ough, and there- 
fore dwops its acquaintance: — one of the new class 
of i^rudent young gentlemen, who, not having spirits 
and constitution for the heart}' excesses of their pred- 
ecessors, entrench themselves in the dignity of a lady- 
like languor. A man of foshion, in the last century, 
was riotous and thoughtless; in this, he is tranquil 
and egotistical : he never does any thing that is silly, 
or saj's any thing that is wise. — [To Georgina] I 
beg your pardon, my dear! I believe Sir Frederick 
is an admirer of yours. — Then, too, our poor cousin, 
the scholar — Oh, Mr. Evelyn, there you are ! 

\_Crosses to l. corner. 

Sir J. Evelj^i ! the very person I wanted : Avhere 
have you been all day? Have you seen to those 
papers ? have j'ou written ni}'' epitaph on poor Mor- 
daunt? — Latin, you know; have j'^ou reported my 
speech at Exeter Hall ? have you looked out the de- 
bates on the customs? and, oh ! have you mended up 
all the old pens in the study? 

Gear. And have you brought me the black floss 
silk? have 3'ou been to Stoi'r's for my ring? and, as 
we can not go out on this melancholy occasion, did 
you call at Hookham's for the last H. B. and the 
Comic Annual? 

Eve. \^^Uways reading'] Certainly, Paley is right 

1>. S.— 25. 



290 THE BEQUEST. 

upon that point; for, \n\t the syllogism thus — [look- 
ing up'] Mu'ani — Sir — Miss Vesey — you want some- 
thing of me? — Paley observes, that to assist even 
the undeserving, tends to the better regulation of our 
charitable feelings. — No ajjologies : I am quite at 
3'our service. 

Sir J. Now he 's in one of his humors. 

Lady F. You allow him strange liberties, Sir John. 

Eve. You will be the less surprised at that, madam, 
when I inform 3'ou that Sir John allows me nothing 
else. I am now about to draw on his benevolence. 

Lady F. I beg your i)ardon, sir, and like your 
spirit. Sir John, I'm in the Avay, I see; for I know 
3^our benevolence is so delicate, that 3'ou never allow 
an}^ one to detect it ! [ Walks aside a little, l. 

Eve. I could not do your commissions to-daj' : I 
have been to visit a poor woman who was my nurse 
and mother's last friend. She is very poor, very — 
sick — dying — and she owes six months' rent! 

Sir J. You know I should be most hapjiy to do 
any thing for yourself : but the nurse — [aside] some 
people's nurses are always ill! — there are so man^" 
impostors about. We '11 talk of it to-morrow. This 
most mournful occasion takes up all my attention. 
[Looking at his loatch] Bless me, so late ! I've letters 
to write, and — none of the pens are mended ! [Exit, R. 

Geor. [Taking out her purse] I think I will give it 
to him : — and jei, if I do n't get the fortune, after 
all! — papa allows me so little! — then I must have 
those ear-rings. [Puts up the purse] Mr. Evelyn, 
what is the address of your nurse? 



THE BEQUEST. 291 

Eve. [ }Yriies and gives if] She has a good heart, 
Avith all her foibles. — Ah! Miss Vesey, if that poor 
woman had not closed the eyes of my lost mother, 
Alfred Evelyn had not been this beggar to j'our 
father ! [Clara loohs over the address. 

Geor. I will certainly attend to it — [fiside] if I 
get the fortune. 

Sir J. [^Calling icifhout] Gcorgy, I say ! 

Geor. Yes, j^apa ! [^Exit, r. 

[Evelyn has seated himself again at the table, r., 
and leans his face on his hands. 

Clara. His noble sjjirit Lowed to this ! Ah ! at 
least here I may give him comfort. \_Sits down to 
write] But he will recognize mj' hand. 

Lady F. [Looking over her shoidder] AVhat bill ar"o 
you paying, Clara? — Putting up a bank-note? 

Clara. Hush! — Oh, Lady Franklin, you are the 
kindest of human beings ! This is for a poor 2:)erson. 
I Avould not have her know whence it came, or she 
would refuse it. AVould jou? — No: he knows her 
handwriting, also. 

Lady F. Will I — Avhat? give the money myself? 
with pleasure ! Poor Clara ! why, this covers all 
3''0ur savings ! and I am so rich. 

Clara. Nay, I would wish to do all myself: it is 
a pride — a duty — it is a joy; and I have so few 
joys ! — But, hush ! — this way. 

[They retire into the inner room, and converse in 
dumb-show. 

Eve. And thus must I grind out my life forever I 
I am ambitious, and Poverty drags me down ! I have 



292 THE BEQUEST. 

learning, and Poverty makes me the drudge of fools. 
I love, and Poverty stands like a specter before the 
altar. — But, no ! if, as I believe, I am but loved 
again, I will — will — Avhat? — turn ojiium-eater, and 
dream of the Eden I may never enter. 

Lady F. \_To Clara] Yes, I will get my maid to 

copy and direct this : she writes well, and her hand 

Avill never be discovered. I will have it done and 

sent instanlly. [^Exit, R. 

[Clara advances to the front of the stage and 

seats herself. Evelyn, reading. 

Enter Sir Frederick Blount, r. c. 

Blount. No one in the woom. — Oh, Miss Douglas ! 
Pway, don't let me disturb you. Where is Miss 
Ycsey — Georgina ? [ Taking Clara's chair as she jises. 

Eve. ^Looking up, gives Clara a chair, and re-seats 
himself '\ [^Aside'] Insolent puppy ! 

Clara. Shall I tell her j^on are here, Sir Frederick? 

Blount. Not for the world ! [^s/c?e] Vewy pwetty 
girl, this companion. 

Clara. What did you think of the panorama, the 
other day, cousin Eveljm? 

Eve. [Reading'] 

T can not talk with civet in the room: 
A fine puss gentleman that 's all perfume. 

Kather good lines these. 
Blount. Sir ! 



THE BEQUEST. 293 

Eve. [^Offering the hooli] Don't you think so? — 
Cowper. 

Blount. \_Dedining the booli] Cowper! 

Eve. Cowper. 

Blount. ^Shrugghig his shoulders, to ChARA] Stwange 
person, Mr. Evelj'n — quite a chawacter! — Indeed, 
the panowama gives you no idea of Naples — a de- 
lighlful place ! I make it a wulc to go there evewy 
second year. I am vewy fond of twaveling. You 'd 
like Womc — bad inns, but vewy fine wuins : — gives 
you quite a taste for that sort of thing. 

Eve. [^Reading'] 

How much (I dunce that has been sent to Rome, 
Excels a dunce that has been kept at home! 

Blount. [^Aside'] That fellow Cowper says vew}- 
odd things! Humph! it is beneath me to quaAvwel. 
\^Aloud^ It Avill not take long to wead the Will, I 
suppose. Poor old Mordaunt ! I am his neawest 
male welation. He was vewy eccentAvic. [_D?Y»fs 
his chair 7iearer'\ By the way, Miss Douglas, did you 
wemark my cuwicle? It is bAvinging euwicles into 
fashion. — I should be most happy, if you Avould 
allow me to dwive you out — nay, nay, I should, 
upon my word. [^Trying to take her hand. 

Eve. [Starting up'] A wasp ! a wasp ! — just going 
to settle ! Take care of the Avasp, Miss Douglas ! 

Blount. A Avasp ! — Avhere ? — do n't bAving it this 
Avay ! Some people do n't mind them. I 've a paAV- 
tieular dislike to Avasps: they sting feaAvfulljM 

Eve. I beg pardon — it 's only a gad-fly 1 



294 THE BEQUEST. 

Enter Servant, r. 

Serv. Sii- John will bo liappj- to see yoii in his 
sludy, Sir Frederick. [^Exit Servant. 

Blount. Vcw}- weU. — Upon my word, there is 
something vcwy nice about this girl. To be sure. I 
love Georgina; but if this one Avould take a fancy 
to me — [thoughtfully^ Avell, I don't see what harm 
it could do me. — Au plaisir! [Exit, r. 

Ece. Clara ! 

Clara. Cousin ! 

Eve. And you, too, are a dependent! 

Clara. But on Lady Franklin, who seeks to make 
me forget it. 

Eve. Ay, but can the world forget it? This inso- 
lent condescension — this coxcombry of admiration — 
more galling than the arrogance of contempt! Look 
you, now: I'obe Beauty in silk and cashmere; hand 
Virtue into her chariot; lackey their caprices; Avrap 
them from the winds ; fence them round Avith a golden 
circle — and Virtue and Beaut}' are as goddesses, both 
to peasant and to prince. Strip them of the adjuncts : 
see Beauty and Virtue poor, dejiendent, solitar}' ; 
Avalking the world defenseless! — oh, then the devo- 
tion changes its character: the same crowd gather 
eager!}' around — fools, fops, libertines — not to wor- 
ship at the shrine, but to sacrifice the victim! 

Clara. My cousin, you are cruel. 

Eve. Forgive me ! There is a something, when 
a man's heart is better than his fortunes, that makes 
even aifection bitter. 



THE BEQUEST. 295 

Clara. I can smile at the pointless innocence — 

Eve. Smile ! — and he took your hand ! Oh, Clara, 
3^011 know not the tortui'es that I suifer hourly ! When 
others apjiroaeh you. — young, fair, rich, the sleek 
darlings of the world — I accuse you of your ver}- 
beauty;. I writhe beneath every smile that you be- 
stow. [ChAnx about to speak"] No — speak not! my 
heart has broken its silence, and jovl shall hear the 
rest. For you I have endured the weaiy bondage 
of this house — the fool's gibe, the hireling's sneer, 
the bread purchased by toils that should have led to 
loftier ends : yes, to see you — hear you : for this — 
for this I have lingered, suifered, and forborne. Oh, 
Clara, we are orphans both ! friendless both ! you 
are all in the world to me ! [*S7ie turns away"] Turn 
not away : my very soul speaks in these words — 
I LOVE you! 

Clara. No, Evelyn — Alfred — no! Say it not — 
think it not ! It were madness ! 

Eve. Madness ! — Nay, hear me yet. I am poor — 
penniless — a beggar for bread to a dying servant. 
True : but I have a heart of iron ; I have knowledge, 
patience, health ; and my love for you gives me, at 
last, ambition. I have trifled with raj^ own energies 
till noAv ; for I despised all things till I loved thee. 
With you to toil for, your step to support, your path 
to smooth, and I — I, poor Alfred Evelyn — promise 
at last to win for you even fame and fortune. Do not 
withdraw your hand — this hand — shall it not be 
mine? \_Kneels. 

Clara. Ah, Evelyn, never — never ! ^ 



296 THE BEQUEST. 

Eve. Never ! [Itises. 

Clara. Forget this folly : our union is impossible; 
and to talk of love were to deceive both. 

Eve. [Bittei'ly'] Because I am poor! 

Clara. And I, too. — A marriage of privation, of 
penur}-, of daj^s that dread the morrow ! I have seen 
such a lot. Never return to this again. [^Crosses, r. 

Eve. Enough — you are obeyed. I deceived mj^- 
self — ha, ha! I fancied that I, too, was loved — I, 
whose youth is already half gone with care and toil ; 
whose mind is soured ; whom no body can love ; who 
ought to have loved no one ! 

Clara. \^Aside'\ And if it were only I to suffer, or, 
perhaps, to starve ! Oh, what shall I sa}' ? — Evel3'n — 
cousin ! 

Eve. Madam ! 

Clara. Alfred, I — I — 

Eve. Reject me? 

Clara. Yes! It is past! [£'.r?V, r. 

Eve. Let me think. It was yesterday her hand 
trembled when mine touched it : and the rose I gave 
her — yes, she pressed her ii2)s to it once, when she 
seemed as if she saw mc not. But it was a trap — a 
trick; for I was as poor then as now. This will be 
a jest for them all ! Well — courage ! it is but a poor 
heart that a coquette's contempt can break. And, 
now that I care for no one, the world is but a great 
chess-board ; and I will sit down in earnest, and play 
with Fortune. [Retires up to the table, r. 



THE BEQUEST. 297 

Enter Lord Glossmore, preceded by Servant, r. 

Serv. I will tell Sir John, my lord. \_Exit, r. 

[Evelyn takes up the neicsjjaper. 

Gloss. The secretary- — hum! [Jb Evelyn] Fine 
day, sir! Any news from the East? 

Eve. (r.) Yes : — all the wise men have gone back 
there ! 

Gloss. Ha, ha ! — not all ; for here comes Mr. Stout, 
the great political economist. 

Enter Stout, r. 

Stout, (r. c.) Good morning, Glossmore ! 

Gloss, (l.) [Asidel Glossmore! — iho parveiiu! 

Stout. Afraid I might be late: been dotaiiicd at 
the vestry. Astonishing how ignomvnt the English 
poor are! Took me an hour and a half to beat it 
into the head of a stupid old widow, with nine cliil- 
dren, that to allow her three shillings a week was 
against all the rules of public moralitjM 

Eve. (r.) Excellent! — admirable! Your hand, 
sir ! 

Gloss. What ! you approve such doctrines, Mr. 
Evelj'n ! Are old women only fit to be starved? 

Eve. Starved ! — popular delusion ! Observe, my 
lord : to squander money upon those who starve, is 
onlj'' to afford encouragement to starvation ! 

Stoiit. [Aside'] A very superior person that. 

Gloss. Atrocious principles ! Give me the good 
old times, when it was the duty of the rich to succor 
the distressed. 



298 THE BEQUEST. 

JEve. On second thoughts, yoii ai"c right, my lord. 
I, too, know a poor woman — ill, dying, in want. 
Shall she, too, perish ? 

Gloss. Perish ! — horrible ! — in a Christian coun- 
tr}^ ! Perish ! Heaven forbid ! 

Eve. [Holding out his hand'] What, then, will you 
give her? 

Glo-^s. Aliem! Sir, the parish ought to give. 

Stout. [THY/i vehemence'] No, no, no! — certainly 
not! 

Enter Sir John, -Blount, Lady Franklin, and 
Georgina, r. 

Sir J. How d'ye do? — Ah! how d'j'o do, gen- 
tlemen ? This is a most melancholy meeting ! The 
poor deceased — Avhat a man he was ! 

Blount. I Avas chwistened Fwedewick, after him. 
He was my first cousin. 

Sir J. And Georgina, his own niece — next of kin. 
An excellent man, though odd : a kind heart, but no 
liver. I sent him, twice a year, thirty dozen of the 
Cheltenham waters. It's a comfort to reflect on these 
little attentions, at such a time. 

Stout. And I, too, sent him the parliamentary de- 
bates regularl}', bound in calf He was my second 
cousin — sensible man, and a follower of Malthus : 
never married to increase the surplus population, 
and fritter away his money on his own children. 
And now — 

Eve. He reaps the benefit of celibacy in the 



THE BEQUEST. 299 

prospective gratitude of every cousin he had in the 
world ! 

Lady F. Ha, ha, ha ! 

Sir J. Hush, husli ! Decency, Lady Franklin ! 
decency ! 

Unter Servant, r. 

Serv. Mr. Graves, Mr. Sharp ! 
Sir J. Oh, here 's Mr. Graves. That's Shai-p, the 
lawyer, who brought the Will from Calcutta. 

Enter Graves and Sharp, r. 

Chorus of Sir J.. Gloss., Blount, Stout. Ah, sir! 
Ah. Mr. Graves! [Georgina holds her hand- 

Sir J. A sad occasion ! kerchief to her eyes. 

Graves. But ever}^ thing in life is sad. — Be com- 
forted, Miss Vesey. True, you have lost an uncle ; 
but r — I have lost a wife — such a Avife ! — the first 
of her sex — and the second cousin of the defunct! 
Excuse me. Sir John : at the sight of your mourning, 
my wounds bleed afresh. 

[Servants hand round refreshments. 
Sir J. Take some refreshment — a glass of wine. 
Graves. Thank you! — Very fine sherry! — My 
poor, sainted Maria ! sherry was her M-ine. Every 
thing reminds me of Maria. — Ah, Lad}' Franklin! 
you knew her. Nothing in life can charm me now. 
[.<4.s«Wr?] A monstrous fine woman that! 

Sir J. And now to business. Eveljm, you may 
retire. 



300 THE BEQUEST. 

Sharp. \_Lookin(j at his 7iotes'] Evelyn — any rela- 
tion to Alfred Evelyn ? 

Eve. The same. 

Sharp. Cousin to the deceased, seven times re- 
moved. — Be seated, sir: there may be some legacy, 
though trifling. All the relations, however distant, 
should be present. 

Lady F. Then Clara is related : I will go for her. 

\_Exit, R. 

Geor. Ah, Mr. Evelj'n, I hope you will come in 
for something — a few hundreds, or even more. 

Sir J. Silence ! hush ! whugh — ugh ! Attention ! 
\_Whihi the Lawyer opens the Will, re-enter 
Lady Franklin and Clara. 

Sharp. The Will is very short, being all personal 
property. He was a man that always came to the 
point. 

Sir J. I wish there were more like him. 

\_Chorus groan and shahe their heads. 

Sharp. [Beading'] " I, Frederick James Mordaunt, 
of Calcutta, being, at the present date, of sound mind, 
though infirm body, do hereby give, will, and be- 
queath, imprimis, to my second cousin, Benjamin 
Stout, Esq., of Pall Mall, London — \_Cho7-us exhibit 
lively emotionl — being the value of the parliamentary 
debates, with which he has been pleased to trouble 
me for some time past — deducting the carriage 
thereof, which he always forgot to pay — the sum 
of 141. 2s. 4d." \_Chor^is breathe more freely. 

Stout. Eh ! what ! 14/. ? Oh, hang the old miser ! 

Sir J. Decency — decency! Proceed, sir. 



THE BEQUEST. 301 

Sharp. \_Readm(j'\ " Item : To 8ir Frederick Blount, 
Baronet, my nearest male relative " — 

[^Chorus exhibit lively emotion. 

Blount. Poor old boy ! 

[Georgina puts her arm over Blount's chair. 

Sharp. [^Reading'] '•'• Being, as 1 am informed, the 
best dressed young gentleman in London, and in 
testimon}' to the only merit I ever heard he possessed, 
the sum of £500, to bu}' a dressing-case." 

[^Chorus breathe more freely. Georgina catches 
her father s eye, and removes her arm. 

Blount. \_Laufjhin(j confusedly'] Ha, ha, ha ! vewy 
poor Avit ! — low ! — vew}- — vewy low ! 

Sir J. Silence, now, will you ? 

Sharp. \_Beading'\ " Item : To Charles Lord Gloss- 
more — who asserts that he is my relation — ni}' col- 
lection of dried butterflies, and the pedigree of the 
Mordaunts from the reign of King John." 

\_Chorus as before. 

Gloss. Butterflies ! — pedigree ! I disown the 
plebeian ! 

Sir J. [^Angrily"] LTpon m}- word, this is too revolt- 
ing! Decency ! — Go on. 

Sharp. [^Reading'] " Item : To Sir John Yesey, 
Baron, Knight of the Guelph, F.R.S., F.S.A., etc."— 

\_Chorus as before. 

Sir J. Hush ! Noio it is really interesting. 

Sharp. \_Iieading'] " Who married m}'' sister, and 
who sends me, every j'ear, the Cheltenham waters — 
which nearly gave me mj^ death — I bequeath — the 
empty bottles." 



302 THE BEQUEST. 

Sir J. Why, the ungrateful, rascally, old — 

Chorus. Decency, Sir John — decency! 

Sharp. \_Ji ending'] " Item : To Henry Graves, Esq., 
of the Albany " — [^Chorus as before. 

Graves. Pooh, gentlemen! my usual luck: not 
even a ring, I dare swear! 

Sharp. {^Reading'] " The sum of £5,000, in the 
three-per-cents." 

Lady F. I wish you ]oj ! 

Graves. Joy — pooh! Three-per-cents! Funds 
are sure to go. Had it been land., now — though 
only an acre ! Just like my luck. 

Sharp. [Reading'] "Item: To my niece, Georgina 
Vesey " — \_Chorus as before. 

Sir J. Ah, now it comes! 

Sharp. [Reading] " The sum of £10,000, India 
stock ; being, with her father's reputed savings, as 
much as a single woman ought to possess." 

Sir J. And what the devil, then, does the old fool 
do with all his money? 

Chorus. Really, Sir John, this is too revolting! — 
Decency ! Hush ! 

Sharp. [Reading] '■ And, with the aforesaid lega- 
cies and exceptions, I do will and bequeath the Avholo 
of my fortune — in India stock, bonds, exchequer 
bills, three-jjcr-cents, consols, and in the bank of Cal- 
cutta, (constituting him, hereby, sole residuary leg- 
atee, and joint executor with the aforesaid Henry 
Graves, Esq.,) — to Alfred Evelyn, now or formerly 
of Trinity College, Cambridge. [Uiiiversal excitement] 
Being, I ani told, an oddit}^, like myself; the only 



THE BEQUEST. 303 

one of 1113* relations who never fawned on me ; and 
who, having known privation, may the better employ 
wealth."' [^All me] And now, sir, I have only to wish 
you jo}^, and give 3^011 this letter from the deceased : 
1 believe it is important. [^Gives letter to Evelyn. 

Eve. lC?-ossi?ig ove)- to Clara] Ah, Clara, if 3'ou had 
but loved me ! 

Clam. [^Turning away~\ And his wealth, even more 
than povert}', separates us forever ! 

[^All surround Evelyn with congratulations. 

Sir J. [To Georgina] Go, child; put a good face 
on it : he 's an immense match ! — My dear fellow^ I 
wish 3^ou joy ! You are a gi-eat man now — a very 
great man ! 

Eve. [AsiV7e] And her voice alone is silent ! 

Gloss. If I can be of any use to you — 

Stout. Or I, sir — 

Blount. Or I. — Shall I put you up at the clubs? 

Sharp. You will want a man of business. I trans- 
acted all Mr. Mordaunt's affiiirs. 

Sir J. Tush, tush ! Mr. Eveljni is at home here. 
Always looked on him as a son. Nothing in the 
world we Avould not do for him — nothing ! 

Eve. Lend me £10 for my old nui-se ! 

\_Chorus put their hands into their pockets. 

Curtain. 



304 THE BEQUEST. 

COSTUMES. 

Alfred Evelyn. — Black frock coat and vest; Oxford gray 

trowsers; cloth-top shoes; black neckerchief. 
Stout. — Gi*een, cut-off coat, with broad tails; striped vest; 

white cravat with large tie; nankeen trowsers, without 

straps; cloth-top shoes; large, red pocket-handkerchief; 

white hat, with black crape round it. 
Sir John Vesey. — Black dress-coat and trowsers; white vest 

and cravat; white hair; double eye-glasses, hanging by 

chain round neck. 
Glossmore. — Black frock coat and trowsers; polished leather 

boots; black vest; white cravat; light kid gloves. 
Graves. — Body-coat, and full black suit; black gloves. 
Blount. — Fashionable black suit. 

Sharp. — Plain, tight-fitting, black suit; old beaver hat. 
Clara Douglas. — Black barege walking dress, high neck and 

long sleeves, slightly trimmed with black lace; hair plain; 

black shoes and stockings; black satin apron. 
Lady Franklin. — A gay-colored silk dress. 
Georgina. — White muslin, cut high, and long sleeves, trimmed 

with black ribbons and jet ornaments. 



THE DEATH OP CATO. 305 



THE DEATH OF CATO. 



From Addison's Cato. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Cato, A Roman Senator. 

PoRCius, son of Cato. 

Marcia, daughter of Cato. 

Lucia, friend of Marcia. 

Lucius, old friend of Cato. 

JuBA, a Niimidian Prince, suitor to Marcia^ 

Four Freedmen. 



Scene : — A Chamber in Cato's Palace. Cato discov- 
ered, sitting in deep meditation, holding in his hand 
Plato's hook on the Immortality of the Soul; a 
drawn sword lying by him on a table. 

Cato. It must be so : Plato, thou reasonest well ; 
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, 
This longing after immortality? 
Or whence this secret dread and inward horror 
Of falling into naught? Why shrinks the soul 
Back on herself, and startles at destruction ? 
'T is the Divinity that stirs within us ; 

1), R.— 20. 



306 THE DEATH OF CATO. 

'Tis Heaven itself that points out an hereafter, 
And intimates eternity to man. 

Eternity ! \_Rising and coming forward^ That pleas- 
ing, dreadful thought! — 
Through what variety of untried being — 
Through what new scenes and changes must we pass ! 
The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me ; 
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. 
Here will I hold : If there 's a power above us, 
(And that there is, all nature cries aloud 
Through all her woi'ks,) he must delight in virtue; 
And that which he delights in, must be hajjpy. 
But when? or where? — This world was made for 

Csesar. — 
I 'm weary of conjectures : this must end 'em. 

\^Goes back to the table, laying his hand on his swoi'd. 
Thus am I doubly armed : my death and life. 
My bane and antidote, are both before me : 
This in a moment brings me to an end ; 
But this informs me I shall never die. 

[^Comes forward with a roll of paper and a sword. 
The soul, secured in her existence, smiles 
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. — 
The stars shall fade away ; the sun himself 
GroAV dim with age, and nature sink in years; 
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth ; 
Unhurt amidst the war of elements, 
The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. 
What means this heaviness that hangs upon me? 
Nature oppressed, and harassed out with care. 
Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favor her. 



THE DEATH OF CATO. 307 

That my awakened soul may take hev flight, 
Ecnewcd in all her strength, and fresh with life — 
An offering fit for heaven. Let guilt or fear 
Disturb man's rest : Cato knows neither of 'em : 
Indifferent in his choice to sleep or die. 

\_Eeturns and sits. 

Enter Porcius, ii. 

But, hah! how's this? My son! Why this intrusion? 
Were not my orders that I would be private ? 
Why am I disobeyed ? 

Por. Alas, my father ! 
What means this sword, this instrument of death ? 
Let me convey it hence. \_Takes it up. 

Cato. Kash youth, forbear ! 

Por. Oh, let the prayers, the entreaties of your 
friends, 
Their tears, their common danger, wrest it from you. 

Cato. Wouldst thou betray me ? wouldst thou give 
me up, 
A slave, a captive, into Coesar's hands? [Rises. 

Retire, and learn obedience to a father ! 
Or know, j'oung man — 

Por. Look not thus sternly on me : 
You know I 'd rather die than disobey you. 

[Lays down the sword. 

Cato. 'T is well : again I 'm master of myself 

[Takes up the sword. 
Now, Caesar, let thy troops beset our gates, 
And bar each avenue ; th}' gathering fleets 



308 THE DEATH OF CATO. 

O'ei'spread the sea, and stop up every port : 

Cato shall open to himself a passage, 

And mock thy hopes. \_Comes forward, r. 

For. \_Kneels, r. c] Oh, sir, forgive your son. 
Whose grief hangs heavy on him ! Oh, my father — 
How am I sure it is not the last time 
I e'er shall call you so? — be not displeased, 
Oh, be not angry with me. whilst I Aveep, 
And, in the anguish of my heart, beseech you 
To quit the dreadful purpose of 3^our soul. 

Cato. Thou hast been ever good and dutiful. 

[^Lays his hand on his head. 
Weep not, my son ; all will be well again : 
The righteous gods, whom I have sought to please, 
Will succor Cato and protect his children. 

For. Your words give comfort to my drooping 
heart. \_Rises. 

Cato. Porcius, thou may'st rely upon m}^ conduct : 
Cato will never act what misbecomes him. 
But go, my son : take care that naught be Avanting 
Among thy father's friends. See them embarked ; 
And tell me if the winds and seas befriend 'em. — 
My soul is quite weighed down with care, and asks 
The soft refreshment of a moment's sleep. 

[Cato goes up. Porcius foUoxcs him and kneels 
at his feet ; Oato looks kindly upon him, and 
then e.rit, l. 
For. My thoughts are more at ease; my heart 
revives. 



THE DEATH OP CATO. 309 

Enter Marcia, l. 

Oh, Marcia ! oh, my sister ! still there 's hope : 
Our father will not cast away a life 
So needful to us all, and to his country. 
He is retired to rest, and seems to cherish 
Thoughts full of peace. He has dispatched me hence. 
With orders that bespeak a mind corajiosed. 
And studious for the safety of his friends. 
Marcia, take care that none disturb his slumbers. 

[£'x<Y, R. E. 
Mar. (c.) Oh, 3^e immortal jsowers that guard the 
just. 
Watch round his couch, and soften his re^DOse ! 
Banish his sorrows, and becalm his soul 
With easy dreams ! Eemember all his virtues. 
And show mankind that goodness is your care ! 

Enter Lucia, l. 

Lnc. (l.) Where is your father, Marcia? where is 
Cato ? 

Mar. Lucia, speak low : he is retired to rest. 
My friend, I feel a gentle, dawning hope 
Rise in my soul : we may be happ}^ still. 

Luc. (l. c.) Alas, I tremble when I think on Cato ! 
In every view, in every thought, I tremble. 
Cato is stern, and awful as a god : 
He knows not how to wink at human frailly. 
Or pardon weakness that he never felt. 

Mar. Though stern and awful to the foes of Rome, 
He is all goodness, Lucia, always mild, 



310 THE DEATH OF CATO. 

Compassionate, and gentle to his friends : 
Filled Avith domestic tenderness; the best, 
The kindest fatlier. I have ever found him 
Easy and good, and bounteous to m}' wishes. 

Luc. 'T is his consent alone can make us happy: 
But who knows Cato's thoughts? 
Who knows how yet he may dispose of Poreius ? 
Or how he has determined of thyself? 

Mar. Let him but live : commit the rest to heaven. 

Enter Lucius, l. 

Lucius, (c.) Sweet arc the slumbers of the virtuous 
man ! — 
Oh, Mai-(!ia, I have seen thy godlike father ! 
Some power invisible supports his soul. 
And bears it up in all its wonted gree : 
A kind, refreshing sleej) has fallen : 
I saw him stretched at ease, his fancy lost 
In pleasing dreams : as I drew near his couch, 
He smiled, and cried, " Ca?sar, thou canst not hurt 
me ! " 
Mar. (r. c.) His mind still labors with some dread- 
ful thought. 

Enter Juba, r. 

Juha. (r.) Lucius, the horsemen are returned from 
viewing 
The nnmber, strength, and posture of our foes, 
Who now encamp within a short hour's march. 
On the high point of yon bright western tower 



THE DEATH OF CATO. 311 

Wo ken them from afar : the setting sun 

Phvys on their shining arms and burnished helmets, 

And covers all the field with gleams of fire. 

Lucius. Marcia, 'tis time we should awake thy 
father. 
Cfes.ar is still disclosed to give us terms, 
And waits at distance till he hears from Cato. 

Enter Porcius, r. 

Porcius, thy looks speak somewhat of importance: 
What tidings dost thou bring? Methinks I see 
Unusual gladness sparkling in thine eyes. 

Por. As I was hastening to the port — ■ whei'e now 
M}' father's friends, impatient for a passage, 
Accuse the lingering winds — a sail arrived 
From Pompey's son, who, through the i-ealms of Spain, 
Calls out for vengeance on his father's death. 
And rouses the whole nation up to arms. 
Were Cato at their head, once more might Eome 
Assert her rights and claim her liberty. — 

[^Groans are heard within. 
But, hark! Avhat means that groan? — -Oh, give me 

way. 
And let me fll}' into my father's presence ! [^Exit, L. 

Lucius. Cato, amidst his slumbers, thinks on Rome ; 
And, in the Avild disorder of his soul. 
Mourns o'er his country. [^Groans are heard again. 
Ha ! a second groan ! Heaven guard us all ! 

Mar. Alas ! 't is not the voice 
Of one who sleeps : 't is agonizing pain : 
'T is death is in that sound ! 



312 THE DEATH OP CATO. 

Enter Porcius, l. ; advances between Marcia and Juba. 

Por. (l.) Oh, sight of woe ! 
Oh, Marcia, what we feared is come to pass ! — 
Cato has fallen upon his SAVord 

Lucius, (l. c.) Oh, Poi'cius, 
Hide all the horrors of thy mournful tale, 
And let us guess the rest ! 

Por. I 'vc i-aised him up, 
And placed him in his chair, where, jiale and faint, 
He gasps for breath ; and, as his life flows from him, 
Demands to see his friends. His servants, weeping. 
Obsequious to his orders, bear him hither. 

Mar. O Heaven, assist me in this dreadful hour, 
To pay the last sad tribute to my father ! 

Enter Cato, l., preceded by two Freedmen, and sup- 
ported by two others. The two first Freedmen 
remove the table, r., and remain by it. Marcia 
runs to assist Cato ; takes his right arm, and helps 
to bring him to a chair, c. 

Juba. (r. c.) These are thy triumphs, thy exploits, 
O Cffisar ! 

Lucius, (l. c.) Now is Home fallen, indeed! 

Cato. (c.) Here set me down. 
Porcius, come near me : — are my friends embarked ? 
Can fixij thing be thought of for their service? 
"Whilst yet I live, let me not live in vain. — 
Oh, Liieius, art thou here? — Thou art too good ! — 
Let this our friendship live between our children ; 



THE DEATH OF CATO. 313 

Make Porcius happy in thy daughter Lucia. — 

Alas, jDoov man, he weeps! Marcia, my daughter — 

Oh, bend me forward ! — Juba loves thee, Marcia. 

A senator of Kome, Avhile Eome survived, 

Would not have matched his daughter Avith a king; 

But Cajsar's arms have thrown down all distinction : 

Whoe'er is brave and virtuous is a Roman. 

I 'm sick to death ! — Oh, when shall I get loose 

From this vain world, the abode of guilt and sorrow! 

And yet, methinks, a beam of light breaks in 

On my departing soul. — Alas ! I fear 

I 've been too hasty. — Oh, 3'e powers that search 

The heart of man, and Aveigh his inmost thoughts. 

If I have done amiss, imjjute it not ! — 

The best may err — but you are good, and — oh ! 

\_Dies. Curtain descends to solemn music. 

COSTUMES. 

Cato. — Flesh-colored dress; black Roman sandals; white Ro- 
man tunic; white kerseymere toga, edged with scarlet. 

PoRCii'S. — Roman breastplate and lambrckins; scarlet mantle; 
flesh-colored legs ; l)lack sandals; helmet. 

Lucii's. - — Blue Roman toga and tunic; breastplate; ilesh-colored 
legs; black sandals. 

JuB.v. — Scarlet satin jacket; tiger-skin mantle; rich bracelets 
and coronet; tlesh-colored legs; red sandals. 

Marcia. — Wliite muslin dress; drapery; black bracelets. 

LvciA. — AVhite muslin dress, with white Roman drapery; tiara 
of pearls ; black bracelets. 



D. S.— 27. 



314 



THE FORLORN HOPE OF MONA. 




THE FOELOEN HOPE OF MONA. 



From Ilason's Caractacus. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



Caractacus, General and King of the Britons. 
AiiViRAGUS, son of Caractacus. 
Eltdurus, a brave British youth. 
Cadwall. high-priest of the Druids. 
Mador, a venerable bard. 
Evelina, daughter of Caractacus. 
Druids and Bards — ten or more. 



THE FORLORN HOPE OF MONA. 315 

Prologue. 

Mason's Caractacus, thoucch a dramatic poem of .so 
great merit, that Sir Walter Scott described it as in- 
imitable, has probably not been represented on the 
stage for almost a hundred years. We have selected 
from this artistic work several connected scenes, to 
the performance of which we solicit attention. The 
place of action is supposed to be near the sacred altars 
of the Druids, overshadowed hy gloomy oaks, in the 
center of the isle of Mona. The first events shown 
are the accusation, trial, and release of Elidurus, a 
brave British prince, suspected of treachery; and 
the return of Arviragus, son of Caractacus, from long 
absence. But the main part of the drama is con- 
cerned in setting forth the stern and solemn prepara- 
tions of Caractacus and others, about to engage in a 
last desperate conflict with the Eoman enemy, hover- 
ing near the sacred grove. In language of stately 
magnificence, the arch-priest of the Druids offers ad- 
jurations, and then delivers into the hand of the king 
the magic "sword of old Belinus," which had slept 
for aires within the hollow ti-unk of an old oak. 
Ev^elina, the king's daughter, utters a prayer for her 
father, her brother, and her lover, as the three stand 
read}' to go forth to conquer or perish. The scene 
closes with a fierce ode of war, sung by a master 
bard ; at the end of which a Druid blows the sacred 
trumpet, and Caractacus pronounces a few deter- 
mined words, as a signal for advancing against the 
hated foe. 



316 THE FORLORN HOPE OF MONA. 

Scene: — The Island of Mona, or Anglesea; a forest 
of gnarled oaks; rocky altars of the Druids. 
Enter Elidurus, l., followed by Evelina. 

Eli. (c.) Cease, royal maid ! permit me to depart. 

Eve. (l. c.) Yet hear me, stranger! Truth and 
secrecy, 
Though friends, are seldom necessar}^ friends — 

Eli. I go to try my truth — 

Eve. Oh ! go not hence 
In wrath ; think not that I suspect thy virtue : 
Yet ignorance may oft make virtue slide. 
And if — 

Eli. In pity, spare me ! 

Eve. If thy brother — 
Nay, start not ; do not turn thine e3^es from mine. 
Speak, I conjure thee! is his purpose honest? 
I know the guilty price that barbarous Eome 
Sets on my father's head ; and gold, vile gold, 
Has now a charm for Britons. Bribed by this, 
Should he betray him? — Yes, I see thou shudder'st 
At the dire thought ; yet not as if 't were strange, 
But as our fears were mutual. Ah ! young stranger, 
That open face scarce needs a tongue to utter 
What works within. Come, then, ingenuous prince. 
And instant make discovery to the Druid, 
While yet 'tis not too late. 

Eli. Ah ! Avhat discover ? 
Say, whom must I betray? 

Eve. Thy brother. 

Eli. Ha ! 



THE FORLORN HOPE OF MONA. 317 

Eve. Who is no brother, if his guilty soul 
Teems with such perfidy. Oh, all ye stars ! 
Can he be brother to a youth like thee, 
Who would betra}^ an old and honored king — 
That king his countryman, and one whose prowess 
Once guai'ded Britain 'gainst th' assailing world ? 
Can he be brother to a. youth like thee, 
AVlio fi'om a j^oung, defenseless, innocent maid, 
Would take that king, her father? make her suffer 
All that an orphan suffers — more, perchance: 
The ruffian foe ! — Oh, tears, 3'e choke my utterance ! 
Can he be brother to a youth like thee, 
Who would defile his soul by such black deeds ? 
It can not be — and 3'et thou still art silent. 
Turn, youth, and see me weep. \_She kneels] Ah, see 

me kneel ! 
I am of royal blood — not wont to kneel ; 
Yet will I kneel to thee. — Oh, save ni}- father ! 
Save a distressful maiden from the force 
Of barbarous men ! Be thou a brother to me ; 
For mine, alas ! — Ha ! \_Sees Arviragus entering, R. 

Arv. Evelina, rise ! 
Know, maid, I ne'er Avill tamely see thee kneel 
Even at the foot of Caesar. \_Lifts her np. 

Eve. 'T is himself; 
And he will prove my father's fears were false — • 
False as his son is brave. Thou best of brothers. 
Come to my arms! Where hast thou been, thou 

wanderer ? 
How Avert thou saved ? Indeed, Arviragus, 
I ne'er shed such tears since thou wert lost ; 



318 THE FORLORN HOPE OF MONA. 

For these ai*c tears of rapture. 

Arv. Evelina, 
Fain would I greet thee as a brother ought: 
But wherefore didst thou kneel ? 

Eve. Oh, ask not now ! 

Ai'V. By heaven, I must ! and he must answer me, 
Whoe'er he be ! What art thou, sullen stranger? 

Mi. A Briton. 

Arv. Brief and bold. 

Eve. Ah, spare the taunt ! 
He merits not th}^ wrath. Behold the Druids : 
Lo, they advance. With holy reverence, first, 
Thou must address their sanctity. 

Arv. I will : 
But see, proud boy, thou dost not quit the grove, 
Till time allows us parley. 

Eli. Prince, I mean not. [JTe goes tip. 

Enter Cadwall and other Druids, l. 

Arv. (r.) Sages, and sons of heaven ! illustrious 
Druids ! 
Abruptly I approach j-our sacred presence 
Yet such dire tidings — 

Cad. (c.) On thy peril, peace ! 
Thou stand'st accused, and by a father's voice, 
Of crimes abhoiTcd — of cowardice and flight ; 
And therefore may'st not in these sacred groves 
Utter polluted accents. Quiekl}- say 
Wherefore thou fled'st : for, that base Aict uncleared, 
We hold no further converse. 



THE FORLORN HOPE OP MONA. 319 

Ai'v. O 3'e gods ! Am I the sonofyour Caractacus? 
And could I fly ? 

Cad. Waste not or time or words ; 
And tell us why thou fled'st. 

Arv. I fled not, Druid : 
By the great gods, I fled not ! save to stop 
Our dastard troops, that basely turned their backs. 
I stopped, I rallied them ; when, lo ! a shaft 
Of random cast did level me Avith earth; 
Where, pale and senseless as the slain around me, 
I lay till midnight : then, as from long trance 
Awoke, I crawled upon my feeble limbs 
To a lone cottage, where a pitying hind 
Lodged me and nourished me. My strength repaired, 
It boots not that I tell what humble arts. 
Compelled, I used to screen me from the foe: 
How now a j)casant, from a beggarly scrip 
I sold cheap food to slaves, that named the price. 
Nor after gave it; now a minstrel poor. 
With ill-tuned harj), and uncouth descant shrill, 
I plied a thriftless trade ; and by such shifts 
Did Avin obscurity to shroud my name. 
At length, to other conquests in the north 
Ostorius led his legions. Safer now, 
Yet not secure, I to some valiant chiefs 
Whom war had spared, discovered what I Avas; 
And with them planned how surest we might draw 
Our scattered forces to some rocky fastness 
In rough Ca;rnarvon ; then to breathe in freedom, 
If not with brave incursion to oppress 
The thinly-stationed foe. And soon our art 



320 THE FORLORN HOPE OF MONA. 

So well availed, that now at Snowdon's foot 
Full twenty troops of hardy veterans wait 
To eall my sire their leader. 

Cad. Valiant youth — 

Ece. (r. c.) He is — I said he was a valiant youth ; 
Nor has he shamed his race. 

Cad. We do believe 
Thy modest tale : and may the righteous gods 
Thus ever shed upon thy noble breast 
Discretion's cooling dew. When nurtured so. 
Then, only then, doth valor bloom mature. 

Arv. Yet vain is valor, howsoe'er it bloom. 
Druid, the gods frown on us. All my hopes 
Arc blasted ; I shall ne'er rejoice my friends, 
Ne'er bless them with my father. Holy men, 
1 have a tale to tell will shake j'our souls : 
Your Mona is invaded ; Rome approaches — 
Even to these groves approaches ! 

Dru ids . Horror! horror! 

Arv. Late as I landed on yon highest beach, 
Where, nodding from the rocks, the jDoplars fling 
Their scattered arms, and dash them in the wave. 
There Averc their vessels moored, as if they sought 
Concealment in the shade: and as I passed 
Fp yon thick-planted ridge, I spied their helms, 
'Mid brakes and boughs, trenched in the heath below. 
Where like a nest of night-worms did they glitter, 
Sprinkling the plain with brightness. On I sped 
AVith silent step ; jot oft did pass so near, 
'T was next to prodigy- I 'scaped unseen. 

Cad. Their number, prince? 



THE FORLORN HOPE OF MONA. 321 

Arv. Few, if mine hasty eye 
Did find and count them. 

Cad. Oh, brethren, brethren ! 
Treason and sacrilege, worse foes than Eome, 
Have led Rome hither. Instant seize that wretch, 
And bring him to our presence ! 

\_Tico of the Druids approach Elidurus, but he 
leaves them off and advances toicard Cadwall. 
Say, thou false one. 
What doom befits the slave who sells his country? 

Eli. (L. c.) Death ! — sudden death ! 

Cad. No; lingering, piecemeal death : 
And to such death thy brother and thj-self 
We now devote. Villain, thy deeds are known : 
'T is known ye led the impious Eomans hither, 
To slaughter vis e'en on our holy altars. 

Eli. That on my soul doth lie some secret grief, 
These looks perforce will tell. It is not fear; 
Druids, it is not fear that shakes me thus : 
The gi*eat gods know it is not. Ye can never; 
For what though wisdom lifts ye next those gods, 
Ye can not, like to them, unlock men's bi*easts. 
And read their inmost thoughts. Ah, that ye could! 

Arv. What hast thou done? 

Eli. What, prince, I will not tell. 

Gad. Wretch, there are means — 

Eli. I know — and terrible means ; 
And 'tis both fit that you should try those means 
And I endure them : yet I think my patience 
Will, for some space, baffle your torturing fury. 

Cad. Be that best known when our inflicted o-otids 



322 THE FORLORN HOPE OP MONA. 

Harrow thy flesh. 

Arv. Stranger, ere this is tried, 
Confess the whole of thy black perfidy ; 
So blaek, that when I look upon thy youth, 
Kead thy mild eye, and mark thy modest brow, 
I think, indeed, thou durst not. 

Eli. Such a crime. 
Indeed, I durst not; and would rather be 
The very wretch thou seest. I '11 speak no more. 

Cad. Brethren, 'tis so ; the virgin's thoughts were 
just: 
This 3'outh has been deceived. 

Mi. Yes, one word more : 
You say the Romans have invaded Mona: 
Give me a sword and twenty honest Britons, 
And I will quell those Romans. Vain demand ! 
Alas ! you can not : ye are men of jseace : 
Religion's self forbids. Lead, then, to torture. 

Arv. (r.) Now, on my soul, this youth doth move 
me much. 

Cad. (c.) Think not religion and our holy office 
Doth teach us tamely, like the bleating lamb, 
To crouch before opp\"ession, and with neck 
Outstretched, await the stroke. Mistaken boy ! 
Did not strict justice claim thee for her victim. 
We might full safely send thee to these Romans, 
Inviting their hot charge. Know, when I blow 
Tluit sacred trumpet, bound Avith sable fillets 
To yonder branching oak, the awful sound 
Calls forth a thousand Britons, trained alike 
In holy and in martial exercise ; 



THE FORLORN HOPE OF MONA. 323 

Not by such mode and rule as Eomans use, 
But of that fierce, jjortentous, horrible sort 
As shall api^all even Romans. 

Eli. Gracious gods ! 
Then there are hopes, indeed. Oh, call them instant ! 
This prince will lead them on : I '11 follow him. 
Though in my chains, and some way dash them round 
To harm the haughty foe. 

Arv. A thousand Britons! 
And armed ! Oh, instant blow the sacred trump, 
And let me head them ! Yet, methinks, this youth — 

Cad. I know what thou wouldst say — might join 
thee, prince. 
True, were he free from crime, or had confessed. 

Eli. (l.) Confessed! Ah, think not I will e'er — 

Arc. (r.) Reflect : 
Either th^'self or brother must have wronged us: 
Then why conceal — 

Eli. Hast thou a brother ? — No ! 
Else hadst thou spared the word : and yet a sister 
Lovely as thine might more than teach thee, prince, 
What 'tis to have a brother. Hear me, Druids . 
Though I would prize an hour of freedom now 
Before an age of any after date ; 
Though I would seize it as the gift of heaven, 
And use it as heaven's gift, yet do not think 
I so will pui'chase it. Give it me freely, 
I yet will spurn the boon and hug my chains. 
Till 3'ou do swear by your own hoary heads 
My brother shall be safe. 

Cad. Excellent youth ! 



324 THE FORLORN HOPE OF MONA. 

Thy words do speak thy soul, and such a soul 
As wakes our wonder. Thou art free ; thj' brother 
Shall be thine honor's pledge ; so will we use him 
As thou art false or true. 

JSli I ask no other. 

Arv. \_Crosses to Elidurus] Thus, then, my fellow- 
soldier, to thy clasp 
I give the hand of friendship. Noble youth, 
We '11 speed or die together ! [_They clasp hands. 

Cad. Hear us, prince: 
Mona permits not that be fights her battles 
Till duly purified: for thougli his soul 
Took up unwillingly this deed of baseness, 
Yet is lustration meet. Learn that in vice 
There is a noisome rankness, unperceived 
By gross corporeal sense, which so offends 
Heaven's pure divinities, as us the stench 
Of vapor Avafted from sulphureous pool, 
Of poisonous weed obscene. Hence doth the man 
Who e'en converses with a villain, need 
As much purgation as the pallid wretch 
'Scaped from the walls where frowning pestilence 
Spreads wide her livid banners. For this cause, 
Ye priests, conduct the youth to yonder grove, 
And do the needful rites. Meanwhile, ourself 
Will lead thee, prince, unto t\\j father's j^resence. — 
But, hold ! the king comes forth 

[^Exeunt Priests iciih Elidurus, r. Enter 
Caractacus, l. 

Car. My son ! xny son ! \_They embrace. 

What joy, what ti'ansport doth thine aged sire 



THE FORLORN HOPE OF MONA. 325 

Feci in these filial foldings! Speak not, boy, 

Nor interrupt that heart-felt ecstasy 

Should strike us mute. I know what thou wouldst 

say; 
Yet, prithee, peace : thy sister's voice hath cleared 

thee : 
And could excuse find words at this blest moment, 
Trust me, I 'd give it vent. But 'tis enough ; 
Thy father welcomes thee to him and honor — 
Honor, that now with rapturous certainty 
Calls thee liis OAvn true offspring. Dost thou Aveep? 
All, if thy tears swell not from joy's free spring, 
I beg thee, spare them. I have done thee wrong ; 
Can make thee no atonement — none, alas ! 
Thy father scarce can bless thee as he ought ; 
Unblest himself, beset Avith foes around, 
Bereft of queen, of kingdom, and of soldiers. 
He can but give thee portion of his dangers. 
Perchance and of his chains. Yet droop not, boy ; 
Virtue is still thine own. 
Arv. It is, my father. 
Pure as from thine illustrious fount it came: 
And that unsullied, let the Avorld oppress us ; 
Let fraud and falsehood rivet chains upon us, 
Still shall our souls bo free. Yet hope is ours. 
As Avell as virtue. 

Car. Spoken like a Briton ! 
True, hope is ours ; and therefore let 's jjrepare ; 
The moments noAv are pi'ecious. Tell us, Druid, . 
Is it not meet Ave see the bands draAvn out, 
And mark their due array ? ' , ; . . ... 



326 THE FORLORN HOPE OF MONA. 

Cad. Monarch, even now 
The}^ skirt the grove. 

Car. Then let us to their front — 

Cad. But is the traitor youth in safety lodged ? 

Car. Druid, he fled — 

Cad. Oh, fatal flight to Mona ! 

Car. But Avhat of that? Arviragus is here — 
My son is here : let, then, the ti-ailor go. 
By this he has joined the Romans. Let him join 

them ! 
A single arm, and that a villain's arm, 
Can lend but little aid to any powers 
Opposed to truth and virtue. Come, my son. 
Let's to the troops, and marshal them with sj^ecd. 
That done, we from these venerable men 
Will claim their read}' blessing. Then to battle: 
And the swift sun, even at his purple daAvn, 
Shall spy us ci'owned Avith conquest or witli death ! 
\_E.reunt Caractacus and Arviragus, l. 

Cad. What may his flight portend ? 8ay. Evelina, 
How came this 3'outh to 'scape? 

Eve. And that to tell 
Will fix much blame on my impatient folly : 
For, ere your hallowed \\^^ had given permission, 
I flew Avitli eager haste to bear my father 
News of his son's return. Inflamed with that, 
Think how a sister's zealous breast must glow ! 
Your looks give mild assent. I glowed, indeed, 
With the dear tale, and sped me, in his ear. 
To pour the precious tidings. But my tongue 
Scarec named Arviragus, crc the false stranger, 



THE FORLORN HOPE OF MONA. 327 

(As I bethink me since,) Avith stealthy pace, 
Fled to the cavern's mouth. 

Cad. The king pursued ? 

Eve. Alas! he marked him not; for 'twas the 
moment 
When he had all to ask and all to fear, 
Touching my brother's valor. Hitherto 
His safety only, which but little moved him, 
Had reached his ears; but when my tongue unfolded 
The story of his bravery and his peril. 
Oh, how the tears coursed plenteous down his cheeks ! 
How did he lift unto the heavens his hands 
In speechless transport ! Yet he soon bethought him 
Of Eome's invasion, and with fiery glance 
Surveyed the cavern round ; then snatched his spear, 
And menaced to pursue the fl.ying traitor : 
But I Avith prayers (oh, pardon, if they erred!) 
Withheld his steps ; for to the left the youth 
Had winged his way, Avhere the thick underwood 
Afforded sure retreat. Besides, if found, 
Was age a match for youth? 

Cad. Maiden, enough : 
Better, perchance, for \is, if he was ca])tive : 
But in the justice of their cause, and heaven. 
Do Mona's sons confide. 

Enter Bard and Elidurus, r. 

Bard. Druid, the rites 
Are finished ; all save that which crowns the rest, 
And which pertains to thy blest hand alone : 



328 THE FORLORN HOPE OF MONA. 

For that he kneels before thee. [Elidurus kneels 

Cad. Take him hence ; fo Cadwall. 

We may not trust him forth to fight our cause. 

Eli. Now, by Andraste's throne — \_Rislng. 

Cad. Nay, swear not, youth ; 
The tie is broke that held thy fealty : 
Thy brother 's fled. 

Eli. Pled ! 

Cad. To the Eomans fled. 
Yes, thou hast, cause to tremble. 

Eli. Ah, Vcllinus! 
Docs thus our love, does thus our friendship end ! 
Was I thy brother, youth, and hast thou left me ! 
Yes; and how left me? — cruel, as thou art, 
The victim of thy crimes ! 

Cad. True ; thou must die. 

Eli. I pray ye, then, on your best mercy, fathers, 
It may be speed}'. I would fain be dead, 
If this be life. Yet I must doubt even that ; 
For falsehood of this strange, stupendous sort 
Sets firm-eyed reason on a gaze, mistrusting 
That what she sees in palpable, plain form — 
The stars in yon blue ai-ch, these Avoods, these cav- 
erns- 
Are all mere tricks of cozenage ; nothing real : 
The vision of a vision. If he 's fled, 
I ought to hate this brother. 

Cad. Yet thou dost not. 

Eli. But when astonishment will give me leave. 
Perchance I shall. — And yet he is my brother; 
And he was virtuous once. Yes, vc vile Romans ! . 



THE FORLORN HOPE OV ]S[ONA. 329 

Yes, 1 nuist die before ni}' thirsty sword 
Drinks one rich drop of vcugcunce. Yet, ye robbers, 
Y"ct will I curse you Avith my dying lips! 
'T was you that stole away my brother's virtue. 
Cad. Now, then, prepare to die. 
Eli. I am prepared. 
Yet, since I can not now (what most I wished), 
By manlj" prowess guard this lovely maid. 
Permit that on 3'our holiest earth I kneel. 
And pour one fervent prayer for her protection. 
Allow me this ; for though you think me false, 
The gods will hear me. 

Eve. I can hold no longer ! 
O Druid, Druid, at thy feet I fall ! 
Y^es, I must plead (away with virgin blushes !) — 
Foi- such a youth must plead. I '11 die to save him ! 
Oh, take my life, and let him fight for Mona! 

Cad. Virgin, arise : his virtue hath redeemed him ; 
And he shall fight for thee and for his country. 
Youth, thank us with thy deeds. The time is short ; 
And now with reverence take our high lustration. 
Thrice do we sprinkle thee with daybreak dew, 
Shook from the May-thorn blossom ; twice and thrice 
Touch we thy forehead with our holj^ wand. 
Now thou art fully purged : now rise restored 
To virtue and to us. Hence, then, my son ; 
Hie thee to yonder altar, Avhere our bards 
Shall arm thee duly, both with helm and sword, 
For warlike enterprise. [Exit Elidurus, l. Entei- 
Caractacus and Arviragus, r. 
Car. 'T is true, my son : 

L>. S.— 2S. 



330 THE FORLORN HOPE OF MONA. 

Bold ai'c their bearings ; and I fear me not 
But they have hearts will not belie their looks. 
I like them Avell : yd would to righteous heaven 
Those valiant veterans that on Snowdon guard 
Their scant}' pittance of bleak libert}'* * 
Were here to join them. We would teach these wolves, 
Though M^e permit their i*age to j^rowl our coasts, 
That vengeance waits them ere thej' rob our altars. 
Hail, Druid, liail ! We find these valiant guards 
Accoutered so as well bespeaks the wisdom 
That framed their phalanx. We but wait th}' bless- 
ing 
To lead them 'gainst the foe. 

Cad. Caractacus, 
Behold this sword, the sword of old Belinus ; 
Stained with the blood of giants; and its name 
Trifingus. Many an age its charmed blade 
Has slept within yon consecrated trunk. 
Lo, I unsheath it, king! I wave it o'er thee : 
Mark what portentous streams of scarlet light 
Flow from the brandished falchion. On thy knee 
Receive the sacred pledge ; — and mark our words : 
By the bright circle of the golden sun. 
By the brief courses of the errant moon. 
By the dread potency of every star 
That studs the mystic zodiac's burning girth — 
By each and all of these supernal signs, 
We do adjure thee, with this trusty blade, 
To guard yon central oak, whose holiest stem 
Involves the spirit of high Taranis. 
This be thy charge ; to which in aid we join 



THE FORLORN HOPE OF MONA. 331 

Ourselves und our sage brethren. With our vassals, 
Thy son and the Briguntian prince shall make 
Incursion on the foe. 

Ckir. In this and all 
Be our observance meet. Yet surely, Druid, 
The fresh'and active vigor of these youths 
Might better suit with this important charge. 
Not that my heart shrinks at the glorious task, 
But will with ready zeal pour forth its blood 
Upon the sacred roots my firmest courage 
Might fail to save : j'et, fathers, I am old ; 
And if I fell the foremost in the onset. 
Should leave a son behind might still defend you. 

Cad. The sacred adjuration we have uttered 
May never be recalled. 

Car. Then be it so. 
But do not think I counsel this through fear. 
Old as I am, I trust with half our powers 
I could drive back these Komans to their ships : 
Dastards, that come, as doth the cowering fowler, 
To tangle me with snares, and take me tamely. 
Slaves, they shall find that ere they gain their prey, 
They have to hunt it boldly with barbed sjDears, 
And meet such conflict as the chafed boar 
Gives to his stout assailants. O ye gods ! 
That I might instant face them ! 

Cad. Be thy son's 
The onset. 

Arv. From his soul that son doth thank ye. 
Blessing the Avisdom that preserves his father 
Thus to the last. Oh, if the favoring gods 



332 THE FORLORN HOPE OF MONA. 

Direct this arm, if their high will permit, 
I jiour a iDrospcrous vengeance on the foe ! 
I ask for life no longer than to crown 
The valiant task. Steel, then, ye powers of heaven, 
Steel ni}' firm soul with your own fortitude. 
Free from alloy of passion. Give me courage 
That knows not rage ; revenge that knows not malice: 
Let me not thirst for carnage, but for conquest; 
And conquest gained, sleep vengeance in my breast, 
Ere in its sheath my sword. 

Car. Oh, hear his father ! 
If ever rashness spurred me on, great gods. 
To acts of danger, thirsting for renown ; 
If ere my eager soul pursued its course 
Bej'ond just reason's limit, visit not 
My faults on him. I am the thing you made me — 
Vindictive, bold, precipitate, and fierce : 
But as you gave to him a milder mind. 
Oh, bless him, bless him with a milder fate ! 

Eve. Nor yet unheard let Evelina pour 
Her pi-ayers and tears. Oh, hear a hapless maid, 
That even through half the years her life has num- 
bered, 
Even nine long years, has dragged a trembling being, 
Beset with pains and perils. Give her peace ; 
And to endear it more, be that blest peace 
"Won by her brother's sword. Oh, bless his arm, 
iVnd bless his valiant followers, one and all ! 

Eli. \_Entering armed^ Hear, heaven ! and let this 
pure and virgin j^rayer 
Plead even for Elidurus, whose sad soul 



THE FORLORN HOPE OP MONA. 333 

Can not look up to your immortal thrones, 
And urge his own request : else would he ask 
That all the dangers of the a2:)proacliing fight 
Might fall on him alone ; that every spear 
The Romans Avield might at his breast be aimed, 
Each arrow darted on his rattling helm; 
That so the brother of this beauteous maid, 
Returning safe with victory and peace, 
Might bear them to her bosom. 

Cad. NoAV rise all ; 
And heaven, that knows what most ye ought to ask, 
Grant all ye ought to have ! Behold, the stars 
Are ftided: universal darkness reigns. 
ISTow is the dreadful hour ; now will our torches 
Glare with more livid horror; now our shrieks 
And clanking arms will more appall the foe. 
But heed, ye bards, that for the sign of onset 
Yc sound the ancientest of all j'our rhjnnes; 
Whose birth tradition notes not, nor who framed 
Its lofty strains. The force of that high air 
Did Julius feel, when, fired by it, our fathers 
First drove him recreant to his ships: and ill 
Had fared his second landing, but that fate 
Silenced the master bard who led the song. 
Now forth, brave pair ! Go, with our blessing go ! 
Mute be the march as ye ascend the hill ; 
Then, when jq hear the sound of our shrill trumpet. 
Fall on the foe. 

Car. NoAv glorj' be thy guide ! 
Pride of my soul, go forth and conquer! 

Eve. Brother, 



334 THE FORLORN HOPE OF MONA. 

Yet one embrace ! Oh, thou much-honored stranger, 
I charge thee fight by my dear brother's side, 
And shield liim from the foe : for he is brave, 
And will, with bold and well-directed arm. 
Return thy succor. 

Cad. Xow, ye priests, Avith speed 
Strew on the altar's height your sacred leaves. 
And light the morning flame. But wh}" is this? 
Why doth our brother Mador snatch his harp 
From yonder bough? why this way bend his step? 

Car. He is entranced. The fillet bursts that bound 
His liberal locks ; his snowy vestments fall 
In ampler folds ; and all his floating form 
Doth seem to glisten with divinity. 

Enter Mador xcith a harp. 

Yet is he speechless. Say, thou chief of bards, 

What is there in this airy vacancy 

That thou, Avith fiery and irregular glance, 

Should scan thus Avildly? Wherefore heaves thy 

breast ? 
Why starts — 

Mador. Hark ! Heard ye not yon footstep dread, 
That shook the earth with thundering tread? 
'Tis Death!— In haste 
The warrior passed : 
High towered his helmed head. 

I marked his helm ; I marked his shield ; 
I spied the sparkling of his spear; 

I saw his sriant arm the falchion Avield : 



THE FORLORN HOPE OF MONA. 335 

Wide waved the bickering blade, and fired the angry 

air. 
'•On me," he ci'ied, "my Britons, wait; 
To lead you to the field of fate 
I come. Yon car 
That cleaves the air 
Descends to throne my state : 

I mount your champion and your god. 
My proud steeds neigh beneath the thong : 

Hark to my wheels of brass that rattle loud ! 
Hark to my clarion shrill that brays the woods among ! 
l_Here one of the Druids bloivs the sacred trumpet. 
On, my Britons ! Battle slain, 

Eapture gilds your parting hour : 
I, that all despotic reign. 

Claim but then a moment's power." 
Swift the soul of British flame 
Animates some kindred frame; 

Swiftly to life and light triumphant flies. 

Exults again in martial ecstasies ; 

Again for ft-eedom fights, again for freedom dies ! 

Car. It does, it does ! Uneonquered, undismayed. 
The British soul revives ! Champion, lead on ! 
I follow : give me way. Some blessed shaft 
Will rid me of this clog of cumbrous age, 
And I again shall, in some happier mold, 
Else to redeem my country. 

\_The sacred trumpet is again sounded; the Druids 
kindle a strong flame on the altar; the three Sol- 
diers vnsheath their swoi'ds, and the ivhole com- 
pany form a tableau, upon which the curtain falls. 



336 THE FORLORN HOPE OF MONA. 

COSTUMES. 

Caractacus. — Close trowsers of red cloth ; plaid tunic ; short 
cloak of blue or black; sandals; necklace of silver chains, 
hanging low on the breast; round shield about two feet in 
diameter, with a hollow boss in the center, and ornamented 
•with concentric circles of brazen knobs, like brass nail- 
heads; heavy spear and sword; the hair long, and falling 
over the back and shoulders. The general appearance of 
the dress is like that of a Highland chief, but more rude. 

Arviragus. — Brown, close trowsers; tunic of bear's skin; flesh 
arms; dark hair; very long and heavy mustaches, but no 
beard on the chin; bronze bracelets, sword, spear, shield. 

Elidurus. — Flesh-colored arms and legs; blue tunic; red and 
blue short cloak; long curling hair; gold bracelets. His 
armor is like that of Arviragus. 

Cadwall. — A long white dress reaching to the feet, confined 
about the waist by a girdle with a golden buckle; over this, 
an ample robe of white, worn like a shawl or cloak, but not 
fastened in front; necklace of gold; long gray beard; 
wreath of oak leaves, surmounted by a tiara of gold. (See 
frontispiece to Palgrave' s Ilistorj/ of the Anglo-Saxons.) 

Mador. ^ — White flowing robes; white beard. His harp must 
be gilded, so as to glisten in the light. 

The other Druids and bards may wear robes of white, blue, or 
green. They all have long beai'ds. One Druid may carry 
a golden crescent; another may hold a bough of mistletoe. 
The bards are distinguished by their shining harps. 

Evelina. — Tunic of several colors, in rich folds; and over this 
a robe fastened with a dark brooch; a necklace composed 
of many rings of gold ; long light hair, descending loosely 
over the shoulders; a head-band of jet. 



ECLECTIC EDUCATIONAL SERIES. 

HIGHER MATHEMATICS. 

Ray's Plane and Solid Geona- 

etry. 
Ray's Geometry and Trigo- 

nonnetry. 
Ray's Analytic Geometry. 
Ray's Klements of Astronomy. 



Ray's Surveying and Naviga- 
tion. 

Ray's Differential and Integral 
Calculus. 

Evans's School Geonnetry. 



ENGLISH GRAMMAR. 

Harvey's Elem'y Grammar. jPinneo's Primary Granriniar. 
Harvey's English Grammar. |Pinneo's Analytical Granimar. 

ANALYSIS AND COMPOSITION. 

Pinneo's English Teacher. IPinneo's Exercises in False 

Pinneo's Guide to Composition. | Syntax. 

Pinneo's Parsing Exercises. | Williams's Parser's Manual. 

GEOGRAPHY. 

Eclectic Primary Geography, Number 1. 
Eclectic Intermediate Geography, Number 2. 
Eclectic School Geography, No. 3. 

" In laying out the general plan of the work, it seeins to me 
that great care is taken to distribute the topics in the right places, 
and to devote to each its legitimate portion of space — neither too 
much nor too little. . . . No pains is spared to make the 
LANGUAGE PLAIN AND SIMPLE, and it sccms to me that in this re- 
spect the authors have hecti eminently successful. . . . The 
Maps are beyond all praise. . . . The System of Map- 
Drawing is the best I have seen. . . . The Illustrations 
are chosen with excellent judgment.''' — Hon. WM. T. HARRIS, 
Sup't Public Schools, St. Louis. 

HISTORY AND CONSTITUTION. 

Venatale's U.S. History. 1 Thalheimer's Ancient History. 

Andrews's Constitution of the Thalheimer's Mediaeval and 
United States. I Modern History. 

SCHOOL MUSIC. 

Phillips's Day-Sehool Singer. I Voung Singer, Part II. 
Young Singer, Part I. | Young Singer's Manual. 

TAheral Terms on Sample Copies and Supplies for first Introduction. 

i^'N^/i°N"k?'i:} WILSON, HINKLE & CO., Publishers, {'^iwMTi^ 



ECLECTIC EDUCATIONAL SERIES. 



PENMANSHIP. 



Eclectic Copy-Books. 
Eclectic Prim'y Writing-Book. 
Eclectic Exercise- Book. 
Eclectic Writing-Cards. 



Hand -Book of Eclectic Pen- 
manship. 
Eclectic Copy-Book Covers. 



ELOCUTION. 



McGuffey's Juvenile Speaker. 
McGuffey's Eclectic Speaker. 
McGuffey's High School Reader 
McGuffey's Rhetorical Guide. 
Cole's Institute Reader. 
Hemans Ladies' Reader. 



Kidd's Elocution and Vocal 

Culture. 
Kidd's Rhetorical Reader. 
Venable's School Stage. 
Venable's Annateur Actor. 



SCIENCE. 

Schuyler's Principles of Logic. I Norton's Natural Philosophy. 
Brown's Physiol, and Hygiene. | Norton's Elements of Physics. 

LANGUAGES. 

Bartholomew's Latin Grammar [ Duffet's French Method, Part I. 
Bartholomew's Latin Gradual. | Duffet's French Method, Part IL 

TEACHERS' MANUALS. 



The Examiner, or Teacher's 
Aid. 

Smart's Manual of Free Gym- 
nastics. 



Object Lessons. 



Go'w's Morals and Manners. 
Hailnnan's Kindergarten Cul- 
ture. 
Hailnnan's Lectures on Peda- 



gogy. 

SCHOOL RECORDS. 



White's Com. School Register. I ^A^hite's Teacher's Record. 
White's Grad. School Register. ( White's Pupil's Daily Record. 

ECLECTIC SCHOOL PENS. 

No. lOO, School Pen. 

No. 200, Commercial Pen. 

No. 300, Ladies' Pen. 

Liberal Terms on Sample Copies and Sispplies for first Introduction, 



^cTN^ii^TA^V] WILSON, HINKLE & CO., Publishers, {'^lwnSrK^*• 









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